


Glimpse of Gold

by TheOtherMaddHatter



Series: Oceans Away [1]
Category: Pirates of the Caribbean (Movies), Sherlock (TV)
Genre: Alternate Universe - Mermaid, Alternate Universe - Pirate, F/F, F/M, Gen, Lost Soul, M/M, Magic, Merlock, Merman!John Watson, Mermen and Mermaid Culture, Past-Present-Future Story, Pining, Pirate Captain!Mycroft Holmes, Pirate Captain!Sherlock Holmes, Pirate!lock, Piratelock, Platonic Soulmates, Sherlock Can't Swim, Unconditional Love
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2012-02-16
Updated: 2012-09-15
Packaged: 2017-11-07 00:07:54
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings, Major Character Death
Chapters: 27
Words: 86,791
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/424708
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/TheOtherMaddHatter/pseuds/TheOtherMaddHatter
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Captain Sherlock Holmes lives life on the open sea, bound to no one, and loved in secret by someone who could never hope to reach him. But Pirates are often drawn in by a Glimpse of Gold and flashes of innocence.  Rarely are they ever one in the same.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. The Faithful Sailor Boy

**Author's Note:**

> Written because it needed to be done. I do not own Sherlock or anything out of Sherlock, nor the characters, nor the brilliant writing or personalities. I do not gain anything financial from this, only the joy of seeing others liking the story. This is going to be a huge work, so bear with me as I slowly transfer it from FF.Net to here.

 

Mike Stamford, one of Captain Holmes' -the younger- resident ship medics, was well known for being overly superstitious and cautious of the supernatural, or anything he deemed was supernatural in nature. He often claimed that it was more than just bad luck to have women aboard a ship at sea (though he'd never done anything to protest against it) and that clumps of seaweed and other ocean debris were Mermaid Clutches and not to be touched. Most everyone who knew Stamford, including the ship's captain, tended to ignore the supernatural rumblings.

It was one of the reasons Captain Sherlock Holmes kept the squat little medic around.

When they'd first met he'd been tempted to scorn the man outright, seeing as how a man of science shouldn't have anything to do with such disgraceful topics like the supernatural. But the more the man had hovered about him at the academy, the more Sherlock began to tolerate him, and even though he did often ramble off into almost insane-like bouts of speech, Sherlock knew he was going to be a good doctor.

Of course, that had all been before him and his ship, The Science of Deduction, and its crew, had gone rogue and run off from the careful watch of the British Naval Eye. They'd been not only ridiculously overbearing in their say on his research, but they were also about to kick a majority of his current inner crew out of school and work, if not outright hanging the lot of them for endorsing and helping his experiments. That and he might have been wanted for murder. Maybe. Needless to say, the lot of them were more than wanted for unethical experimentation on subjects of the crown, drug use, illegal trading, as well as multiple counts of murder, mayhem, and general discord. Oh, and theft. Lots and lots of theft.

So it was without doubt that the Captain of the rogue, pirate vessel, was tolerant of more than just his own eccentricities. Indeed, he was more than tolerant, and though he often said little as it was, he said even fewer words on the subject of the little medical man and his odd supernatural stories.

Until the man had had a panic attack one day.

On that day in particular, they'd just gotten done with a rather successful run on a few of the King's ships coming out of an unscheduled stop in a port that was far from trustworthy. Sherlock's own ship had been parked in a nearby cove for a few days, waiting out the stay of the two larger but more clumsy ships, and after they'd made the run they returned to the cove, blocked carefully by the Criterion Sand Bar. He'd then allowed the rest of the crew (which was made up of a hodgepodge of men, women, and even a few younger orphans) a brief rest while he and his First Mate, Gregory Lestrade, figured out what to do with the captured goods.

Mike Stamford and his assistant Molly Hooper had wandered out of bellow decks to wash the linens and what instruments they had used during the raid, all of his tools and supplies being counted and inventoried for future use. They did this routinely at the Captain's insistent of course, and as always, the two are chattering away happily on the deck just below the one Sherlock and Lestrade are on, their laughter ringing up happily. So used to it, was Captain Holmes, that he never even heard the laughter stop and Molly worryingly ask Stamford what was wrong.

It wasn't until Mike had started sputtering, which quickly proceeded to yelling, and waving his arms at the sand bar just on the other side of the ship that anyone besides Molly was alerted to the problem. And even when they were, no one could get a rational word out of the man for hours. Though when they finally did get him calmed down enough to talk rationally, nothing he said made any sense. Sherlock had dismissed the insistent demands that he'd seen a mermaid on the sand bar as nothing more than an excess of adrenaline and the heat, and perhaps a bit too much rum.

Until he was forced to reconsider his deduction when other, less superstitious and more rational members of his crew reported on seeing a person swimming around out in the ocean off the side of the boat. It was usually different people each time, and at a varying time at each observation, though a majority of them appear to be centered around sunset or early evening. Even though he'd never seen the creature himself, he had no doubt that his crew was seeing something, but that it was more than likely some sort of sea creature with a longer tail, like a dolphin, sea cow, or perhaps even a very small whale.

That was before his youngest crew member, a small orphan boy named Tiny Tim by the rest of the crew (one who rarely spoke to Sherlock, and almost never to everyone else), seized his hand quickly and tugged him over to the side of the boat. At first Captain Holmes didn't know what he was supposed to be looking for, seeing as how Tiny Tim hadn't said a word to him yet, but when the boy's tiny hand raised to point in the direction of the water and the still near-by sand bar. Because there, sitting in the surf where the water was parted by the sand itself, was definitely a person. And not just any person, oh no, a man...

A man with a very long, very bright, golden tail.

"He's been sitting there for a while now, Captain Holmes." Tiny Tim finally said, his hand clasped tight in the Captain's own. "He just watches."

"This is not the first time you've seen him, is it Tim?" Sherlock said calmly, eyes still locked on the serpentine like man in the surf. Apparently he hadn't realized he was being watched just yet. "How often do you see him?"

"He sits there a lot, and just watches. Usually he comes at sunset or night, but not today." Tiny Tim's little voice replied evenly, his voice low, lower than normal. "When he notices we're watching, he'll swim away. It is why you never see him when someone else does. The yelling scares him off."

Sherlock nodded his head in understanding before slowly drawing his telescope from his over-sized coat's front pocket. He always wore this coat, regardless of the temperature it seemed, because not only was it stylish, it was also useful for hiding things and protecting his body. And because it just made his tall frame look good. It was long cut and deeply colored, the midnight blue faded in well worn places, the silver buttons sparkling in others, and it was his coat. It had been a gift from someone very special too him, someone he hadn't seen in a very long time. Which is perhaps why he always wore it...that and it just made him look sharp.

But right now it was important to get his equipment out to study the creature before it noticed, which was easier said than done on the somewhat loud, large ship.

Hopefully it wouldn't be scared off by the flash of light glinting off the end of the metal cylinder when he finally found it, the larger end pointed quickly in its direction. But the Merman never even blinked their way, his back turned slightly to the ship, hands dug into the sand lightly as it laid there, tail moving with the tide gently. He was lying on his side, head down, eyes closed against the midday sun, sunbathing on the sand bar like there wasn't a huge enemy presence only fifty or so yards away. Though maybe it was familiar enough with The Science of Deduction and her crew that he didn't consider either of them a true threat. That would certainly explain its calm, sleep like state, and its general disregard for the humans around it.

Tiny Time was still at his side, eyes held fast on the figure off in the distance, tiny body shaking slightly, though Sherlock knew it was from excitement and intrigue and not fear. And it was the same for his own self, something of this magnitude being discovered by him of all people, a huge importance that no one would believe, even if he could get close enough to society again to tell someone.

And, like most Merfolk that had been depicted throughout pirate and sailor lore, this Merman was beautiful.

Not only was his tail shiny and golden in color, but so was his shaggy hair, which was plastered against his tanned skin. His upper torso, resembling a human's only in the briefest of senses, was slightly buff and glistening with water, three large slits in his abdomen flaring ever so slightly when the water struck them. Sherlock realized that these three slits, along with the other two smaller ones on the creature's neck towards the back of its ears, were gills, and that it was taking in water when the tide hit his side gently. A few delicate necklaces made of small shells, stones, and what looked like pearls, adorned his neck and trailed in long loops down his stomach to where his tail began and his torso ended. The flesh in between the change smooth and beautifully scaled in incandescent gold scales.

The Merman was gorgeous, or what Captain Holmes could see of him was, a form chosen to help lure their prey from ships or the shore and into the water where they would be drowned. There were so many stories and so much lore about Mermaids out there, how they were dangerous, beautiful sirens who would lure you into the water only to kill and then consume you, or worse. How they were pretty from afar, but when you got too close their mouths were filled with sharp, vicious teeth and armed with deadly claws and razor sharp fins. That they would kill you without a second thought and drag your body down with them into the briny depths of the ocean, a cold and cloying fate.

But there was hardly ever any stories about the males of the species, and even what few there were, were often vague and not consistent because for a long time no one thought there even was a male sex to the species. And for Sherlock, who had considered all of the stories about Mermaids to be false anyways, it was hardly worth taking in and storing the info about a lesser, more ridiculous side of an even more ridiculous set of monsters from stories. So he'd never even considered keeping any useful information about this topic, and yet here he was, faced with irrefutable proof of the existence of a mythical creature right before his eyes.

The proof was glorious.

Quickly snapping shut his telescope, Captain Holmes grinned down at Tiny Tim, who met his eyes with a small smile of his own at his Captain's obvious glee. The younger boy, despite the horrors of what he'd seen not even a year earlier, was still full of life and more than willing to look for beauty in the world. It was why Sherlock had taken such a shining to him, to any of his crew really, and he wanted to teach the boy. Foster children would be as close as he probably ever get to having offspring of his own, he knew, and though the thought slightly repulsed him at times, there were other times, such as now, that he embraced it. Because when he and his elder brother Mycroft finally died, so too would the Holmes line. They were the last ones left and it would end all too soon. Sherlock hadn't planned on living past his mid to late thirties.

Once again, Tiny Tim's little hand started to insistently pull on his coat sleeve, drawing his attention away from the dark hole it had plummeted into only moments before. The small boy had begun pointing again towards the sand bar, where the Merman had caught site of them watching him. He'd pulled himself up into a somewhat leaning position, prepared to flee by dragging himself back into the sea, but even in this new, defensive position, he was beautiful. All the grace of a cornered animal and the beauty of a mythical man who couldn't possibly exist.

"I thought Mermen were supposed to be wild and ugly." Tim said quietly, voice no more than a whisper as he watched the creature in the surf. "They're not supposed to be like Mermaids...pretty, I mean. And they don't like people, so they keep away to themselves. That's why you never see them."

"Then there is something strange going on here, don't you think Tim? This one is not a normal one." Sherlock didn't sound concerned, but he was certainly getting there. "Go, call to Lestrade, and let him know we are to pull anchor at once. We are leaving this place."

Tiny Tim nodded furiously before shooting off in the direction of the inner cabins.

Sherlock's revulsion rippled through him.

Mermaids were notorious for taking men from their ships or from the shore to drown them and then consume them, so Mermen couldn't be all that different. To see one that was trying to stay out of general notice was both disturbing and slightly terrifying. What if it was hunting, taking in the stock of its meal choices before it started to lure out its prey? Could it be possible that the men and women on his ship were in danger? He wasn't going to take that chance, not on his life, and so they would just pull anchor sooner than he intended. Merfolk were swimmers, true, but not even one lone Merman could keep up with a ship under full sail. Or at least not for prolonged periods of time.

So he was hoping to outrun the thing, hoping that for all its animalistic mind it would not pursue them too far because of exhaustion or the distance itself, and go and pursue a meal elsewhere. If it did not cease its hunt, he would be forced to perhaps kill it...and wouldn't that make for an excellent dissection?

"Captain, Tiny Tim said that you wanted us to call everyone back on deck and weigh anchor. Is that true?" Ah, Lestrade had come on deck finally, no more lying about in his hammock. "Why the sudden change in orders?"

"We're being hunted, Lestrade, and I want my crew safe." Sherlock answered swiftly as he moved to survey the decks below the one they were on, his crew fumbling about in their rest. "I know it is sudden, but trust me when I say it is for their own good. We will go somewhere else."

"Aye, Captain." Lestrade turned to the rest of the crew. "All hands on deck! Alright you lot, change in plans! Weigh anchor and prepare to set sail."

The resounding cheer made Captain Holmes smirk.


	2. The Fish Of The Sea

After three days underway, the crew were happy to be back out at sea, and Sherlock was feeling a bit more at ease once more. It had been three days since the last sighting of the fish man, and he was finally starting to relax a bit from the constant worry for his crew and their health. Though on the outside he often presented a heartless, cold exterior with little care for others, he was rather the opposite, even going so far as to be somewhat fond of his crew. (Not that he’d ever tell anyone that, mind you, he just preferred the distance between himself and others. Holmes liked his privacy, just as any other man in his family did.) He was so afraid to lose those closest to him that he rarely let himself get close to them in the first place, and so projected the cold persona as a defense.

He often stopped any attempts before they ever got started.

But his crew was loyal and he cared for them more than he did for anyone else in the world, probably, even his own family, though he often chose to ignore them or tune them out at random times. They even put up with more than his actual family did, or what little remained of his true family at any rate. Take his elder brother Mycroft, for example. The man was brilliant, socially influencing, and charismatic down to his littlest toe, but instead of doing something for the good of humanity, he’d turned it into a profit and now stood as one of the few Captains in the Pirate King’s Inner Court below the age of fifty. Sherlock hadn’t understood the decision at the time, but now that he too had forsaken the crown and its subjects, he thought he faintly understood how useless it all was, though he’d never let Mycroft know all that. The man would be insufferable for the rest of his life.

Like he had been after he had found out that Sherlock had denounced King and Country for a life at sea and to be constantly on the run. And though Sherlock had never fully explained what had happened to make him do such a stunt, Mycroft had just nodded and welcomed him to Court, even helping him put together a skeleton crew until he could find more hands. The crew he had now was one of his own device, having told Mycroft’s men to jump ship the first chance he got because he knew that his brother was watching him via their eyes. Now, his crew was of his own choosing, different people he’d helped or found in his travels, each one special to him in their own way.

And he wasn’t going to risk them to some Merman, not when he could out-smart or out-run it faster than the Merman could probably understand.

“Your headings, Captain?” Lestrade’s voice was bright this morning, having finally gotten some decent rest the night before. Sherlock had run them all day and all night for two days straight, but he’d finally felt safe enough to let them rest. “I’m hoping whatever had you spooked back at the bar is over now. So where would you like to go?”

The customary answer of “Wherever the wind may take us!” was ignored.

And Sherlock didn’t rise to the baiting, but did consider his options.

“How are we doing for supplies, Lestrade?” This was a crucial part of his calculations, after all. He had to know if they needed port or just some place to lay low for a while, which was his plan. “I won’t have you lot starving. You’d be useless that way, or at least in the long run. Although you’d probably make fascinating dissection materials.”

“Ever protective of our health, I see.” Greg grumbled the last bit, but seemed to think over the question quick enough, disregarding the Captain’s gruff manner of asking and the highly morbid thoughts it brought with it. Sometimes the Captain was just too odd. “I don’t see why we’d need to dock in a port somewhere. All our supplies were restocked after the last raid, and spirits are high, sir. We’re free to the Ocean’s whim.”

“Then to a nice quiet bay, I should think. Somewhere out of the way but sheltered, and not like last time.” He glared at Lestrade, though the storm hadn’t really been his fault. The man couldn’t help that he’d been thrown over board and damn near drowned in a freak reef that had suddenly appeared during a near-instant storm. “Keep away from Tortuga and the lot. They’ll be looking for us to head to port there. And I have no intention of giving them such an easy target. ”

“Aye, aye Captain.”

\--

The island they’d chosen didn't look all that inhabitable, seeing as it was only a few miles long at best, and probably not even that wide at the middle. It was one of the many random islands that formed in this region, palm trees and bits of flora dotting the white sands with color, rocks jutting far out of the ocean floor to prevent them from being seen while also providing a natural fresh water source, but no animal or sentient life in sight. It was the perfect place for them to rest for a while, since they had a small island to walk along, but also because they could see any potential danger coming for miles in the open space while still staying hidden from sight of others. The mountainous jutting of rocks at the one end had saved them from discovery once before, and it would serve them in the future, Sherlock was sure.

The shape of the island was what was best about it though. Because of the somewhat double crescent shape, it held a hidden sandbar that jutted just off the eastern and northern shores, and a rocky shoreline at its southern most tip. It would keep the waters calm, even in the case of a storm, and would block passage for any unwanted visitors would were unfamiliar with the shoreline. Plus it prevented anyone from sneaking around the tip of the island as well, just in case they were accomplished trackers. It was why Sherlock seemed to favor Baker Island as a safety retreat so often, because it was in fact so safe. Out of the many islands he’d taken refuge on in his life and somewhat eclectic pirating career, this one, one he’d discovered on his 221st day of being a pirate captain, was his favorite.

Even his cook, a Mrs. Martha Hudson had said so, and then smiled fondly at him before producing tea from somewhere like she’d done for the past five years that he’d known her. She was some kind of woman, that was certain, born and bred in the Scottish heartland, tough with many, but kind as well. Mrs. Hudson was something like a mother, Sherlock often thought, if his mother hadn’t died when he was so young, and her maternal ways were a strong influence on Captain Holmes, as well as his crew. It was at times like this that Sherlock was glad he’d killed her husband back in Tortuga and freed her from his evil ways, only to bring her on his ship and place her under his own carefully calculating eye.

As the rest of the crew were settling, and the few long boats being dropped down for some of the crew to go ashore and make camp, Sherlock drew his favorite sitting chair out onto the deck to lounge about and watch the sea. Such was his favorite past time, when he wasn’t experimenting or raiding King and Country, of course. It gave him a sense of calm, to look out into the open sea and know that somewhere out there, things were waiting for him. Adventure, of course, it came with being a Pirate Captain, but other things like excitement, danger, mystery, and knowledge he had to seek out. And seek he did. He sought it with all his might and vitality. But sooner or later, he knew that one day, something else would come from across the sea too him, and when it came, he might even see it coming and be waiting.

But never patiently.

Sighing, Sherlock took off his long, dark coat in the heat of the sun and draped it over the back of the broad chair, the shade cast by its back enough for him not to burn in the direct light, but warm enough for him to doze as he gazed into the distance. He did so for quite some time, the sun dipping slightly against the mast of his ship before he came back to himself, only to catch a flash of something golden floating in the water near the edge of the island, far away from his long boats and crew. The original glimpse of light must have been what had drawn him out of his musings originally. But whatever it was, it was slowly making its way closer to the ship, and when Sherlock realized exactly what he was looking at, he nearly tripped and fell down the stairs in an effort to retrieve his pistol. Damn Mrs. Hudson for hiding it from him!

When he once again emerged from the thoroughly wrecked cabin with his pistol in hand, his white shirt flared open where his top few buttons had come undone in his rush from the chair and deck, the familiar golden spot in the ocean was much, much closer. But it wasn’t making its way any closer than just to the edge of the boat, near the bow, and it was just bobbing there in the surf, head laid back gently in the water, his eyes shut gently. If Sherlock didn’t know that it had been swimming closer the entire time he’d been running around the ship like an idiot, he’d say it was sleeping. Or perhaps just sunbathing in the water, like some fish were known to do. But something in him knew that he wasn’t sleeping, and that he was far from harmless.

So Sherlock looked at him a second time, closer, as if studying a specimen in a jar instead of a threat out in the water, his critical eyes at work.

The creature’s head was floating gently, bobbing with the water, its eyes shut tightly as if in pain, the tail deep in the water and out of sight for the moment. The golden hair that Sherlock had seen plastered to its human-like face fanned out in the water like a halo, the gold dimmed by the water. His hands and arms were floating out on either side if him, like some perverse form of a dead body, and there were clear signs of exhaustion everywhere that Sherlock could see. He was afraid of the creature, really afraid, and wanted it to stay were it was just as much as he wanted it to move and go far, far away from him and his ship. But the thing floating in the water now was so absolutely tired and pathetic looking that Sherlock doubted it would be going much of anywhere on its own unless it was under threat or not its own will.

But he could also see the Merman in clearer detail this close up, which was something that drove his scientific mind into complete overdrive. He wanted to study the creature in detail, to know everything he could about it, what made it tick, what made it chase them. And if he leaned over the side of the boat just a bit more, he’d be able to see just how long the tail was when fully extended in the water. So he wasn’t so sure if he wanted it to regain whatever strength it had, which had to be incredible because of how far and fast it had followed them in that short of a time period. No, if he was going to do any sort of study on it, he’d want it as weak as possible for capture. There was no sense in injuring any of his crew if he could prevent that and go about this wisely, after all. Capturing it while it was still fatigued from such a journey would be the smartest course of action, but only if he was absolutely sure.

Sherlock leaned over the side a bit farther...and slipped.

When he realized that he was indeed falling towards the surface of the water, he momentarily panicked and thought of his crew. There wasn’t much time to think of anything else before he plummeted into the water, eyes stinging at the horrible salt water burn as he clamped them shut tightly. There was no use in flailing because he couldn’t really swim, more of only-barely keeping his head above water when he waded in of his own will, and that was on the calmest of days. Once he was in over his shoulders it was like his limbs totally forgot how to work properly and his brain gave up on trying to decipher how to swim. In short, Captain Sherlock Holmes couldn’t swim. Drowning was such a painful death too, and went on for what felt like eternity.

Just as he felt the tell-tale burn in his lungs from what little oxygen he had been able to grab before hitting the water’s surface, he also felt two sets of distinct pressure against his sides, beneath his arms, grabbing and pulling him up. For some reason the sensation felt familiar, but for the life of his oxygen starved brain, he couldn’t figure out why. He quickly stopped trying as he continued to flail uselessly beneath the waves, his hands swiping at nothing and getting him nowhere. At this rate he’d drown in no time, but at least the constant buzzing in his brain would finally stop.

Sherlock tried to open his eyes in a burst of panic, but only got a bright flash of color and the harsh burn of salt water before he shut his eyes tightly again and prayed that one of his crew had seen him go over board. That it was someone under his employ that had seen him go under and was now trying to haul him to the surface for air. Because if it was the Merman, then he was doomed either way, and just hoped that nothing was left of his corpse once he’d been drag to the bottom and consumed. He didn’t want anyone finding the grisly remains. Especially not one of the orphans who so frequently played in the shallow reef.

Suddenly Sherlock’s head broke the surface of the water, and involuntarily he took a deep, gasping breath, air filling his lungs as he choked and sputtered. A moment later his eyes cleared too, and he was able to see though his sopping curls that while he was floating at the surface of the water, he was still being supported by the two arms that were wound tightly against his chest. But there was also a strong torso against his back, one that was moving faintly in their effort to support his own lanky frame, and something distinctly serpentine that ever so slightly brushed near one of his legs as he moved.

The Merman, because who else would have webbed and clawed hands complete with small. Lacy fins along the forearms, had pulled him above the surface and allowed him to regain his breath. It had saved him from drowning. No, not only saved him from drowning, was continuing to save and support his as he got his wits back, and was ever so slowly making towards the beach. And the only reason he knew this was because the white sand was ever so slightly coming into focus through the water more and more with each passing second.

Sherlock was surprised enough in that moment to not immediately fight against the pull backwards that one flip of the mighty golden tail sent them into. He could see the shimmer of its serpentine length beneath the water and resting below his legs, which were trying uselessly to help in the action, and watched in fascination as it propelled them further than human legs ever could. After all, human legs were designed for walking and running, and weren’t webbed for swimming, where as a Merman’s tail was quite made for swimming, and not much else. Humans had the advantage of both modes of transport, something Sherlock was sure he could use in his favor just as soon as they got into shallow enough water for him to be able to touch and get away.

But of course he was quickly losing himself to his musings again, something that his brother swore would ruin him one day, and at the moment, Sherlock was certain to almost agree. He had no idea where on the lengthy beach they were swimming to and was completely at the mercy of this water-bearing creature, whose own strong grip and endless amount of strength seemed unparalleled in the water. If this was a weakened, tired Merman, than Sherlock had no hope of ever taking him at full strength, and even now his own fate was looking very grim.

Perhaps Merman didn’t dive to the depths to consume their meals...

Sherlock tried to twist suddenly in the creature’s impossibly tight grip, his shirt tearing as he did so, but he’d been able to move enough where he could see where they were headed. A small rocky outcropping had descended from the larger, jagged hills into the water a ways, creating a series of small, shallow wading pools where all manner of life seemed to collect. He’d spent hours there in knee deep water, wading about and poking at all sorts of trapped marine life, many of the underwater beings brightly colored and beautiful. It was also safe from the surf, the calm pools warm from the water, and the perfect depth for someone of the Merman’s size to hide in and be protected.

His crew would never even see them behind the larger boulders, and by the distinct lack of shouting, no one had seen him go overboard.

No one would know he was missing...

Until they found whatever was left of him.


	3. Married To A Mermaid

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Also, in case you were all wondering. Each chapter's title is the actual name of a song sung by sailors, which I found on a lovely website while researching merfolk facts and lore. Later chapters will also just have fun and catchy sea-themed songs, but for now the pattern holds.

Even on land the Merman’s strength was impressive, having wrestled Sherlock’s body into the smaller series of tide pools just off the main shoreline in an almost effortless manner.  Though Captain Holmes was bearing in mind that he was tired from his struggle in the water and his long day at sea, he was still rather impressed by the demonstration, and daunted as his chances of escaping kept dwindling.  The iron grip never once released him fully, one webbed hand always tightly clinging to him in some way or another, even if the other was using itself as leverage to slither up and over complicated rock patterns.    
  
He’d quit struggling once he realized that his legs refused to work properly and propel him away from his would-be executioner, their once reassuring strength sapped by his time spent in the water. The fact the waves' motion disoriented him even further was disheartening.  So Sherlock resigned himself to being dragged about like a rag doll by the supernatural being that had a hold of him, the sand becoming trapped in his shirt and trousers as he was dragged through the sand.  The slightest sting of rocks were next, before Sherlock was shifted and placed atop the large tail of the Merman, the golden scales protecting them both from the jagged edges that threatened to split them open as they moved, before the relief of warm water greeted them.  The scrape of slimy flesh was felt through his trousers, but not enough to really distract him, and he hadn’t even noticed that the membrane had been tucked up along with him against the Merman’s tail.  Soon enough, he was set to rest on a shallow section of rock just a few inches deep in the water, his eyes set to the sky, as if it were to be the last thing he’d ever see.    
  
It was the end, he thought dismally, they’d reached their intended section of secluded beach, the hunter and his weakened, water weary prey.  Any minute now the creature would proceed to either drown him in the shallow, sun lit pool or bash his head against the rocks until he was sufficiently incapacitated. He’d be able to see it coming, either way really. Maybe he’d strangle the Captain, those cool, webbed hands tight against his throat as claws dug in for leverage against pale skin...  
  
The large slap of something striking the water next to him caused him to immediately try to sit up, and upon finding his head spinning from the stupidity of the motion, he settled for merely craning his neck instead towards the noise.  The sight startled him, to say the least. The Merman, having fully dragged himself into the shallow deep pool, and proceeded to swim around it calmly before reaching for something unseen beneath the water.  The slapping noise had been his long tail flailing in the shallow pool, the motion meant to propel him forwards lacking in intensity due to the reduction of water and space.  He seemed to be looking for something, the gold of his tail and hair glinting in the sun as he moved about as if chasing, whatever he was following beneath the surface of the water and out of Sherlock’s sight.    
  
But just as it had started, the Merman suddenly stilled and frantically lunged backwards, whipping the monstrous fanned tail beneath him as he appeared to crouch.  His hands quickly withdrew from beneath the surface of the water, hauling with them a large crab.  The crab was fighting for its life, pinchers waving in all directions, feet trying to scuttle off, but to no avail as the Merman gripped it behind the pinchers at the middle, swimming towards Sherlock carefully.  The Captain watched in wonder at the movements, graceful and full of primal beauty, even as uncertainty ate away at his thoughts.    
  
What was the creature doing with the crab?    
  
What purpose would it serve?    
  
The answer was apparently very simple.    
  
Sherlock watched in rapt awe as the Merman proceeded to slither up next to Sherlock on the rock cropping, much of his upper body and tail now out of the water, and began smashing the crab against the rocks.  The resounding cracks came from the shattering of the smaller being’s shell as it was cracked open and then quickly dissected by the Merman’s clawed hands.  When it had gotten it as mutilated as it wanted, it began to tear big chunks of meat out of the shell and eat them, the white flesh flashing quickly to its mouth as it could tear them out.  Clearly it was **hungry** , and clearly it was eating the remnants of a _crab_ and _not_ Sherlock.

  
Needless to say, Sherlock was a bit confused.  He was even more confused when the Merman looked down at him carefully, its blue, blue eyes shining out from beneath damp hair, as if assessing him.  Whatever he decided, it was clearly remedied with crab meat, because the next handful he’d ripped from the shell was offered to him, the meat pressed against his lips gently.  And though it was raw, and not something Sherlock was prone to want to put into his mouth to begin with, he opened up slowly and took the gift.  No sense in letting a peace offering slip by and risking angering the much larger creature.    
  
Because for all of Sherlock’s good six and some foot frame, the Merman was much longer in length than he was if one included the tail.  The upper torso was that of a normal, if a bit smaller male, but with that golden tail, he was well into the seven foot range, easily dwarfing Sherlock.  But that may have just been in the water, seeing as how now the tail didn’t look as long as it had when the other was dragging him to shore.  Something about the shining, golden warmth attached seamlessly to the man’s upper torso seemed off, different now that he was out of the water.  He looked less weightless, sure, and his hair was plastered to his face and neck like Sherlock’s own was with the water, but for the life of him, he just couldn’t place it.    
  
Then it hit him.    
  
The fan of the tail was different, not solid like a dolphin or manatees’, but thin and membrane based, large bunches of it extending from the apex of the tail outwards to create the fan that was the main propeller system.  It looked like waterlogged fabric running into the water as it was now, though Sherlock knew that it wasn’t.  Now that he was looking, he saw similar, smaller groupings of the fins running along the back and sides of the man’s tail on top of the larger fan still half in the water.  The smaller ones looked almost clear, not as pronounced as the large tail was, but were clearly there to help steer and balance weight distribution, just like a fish’s fins would.    
  
The fingers at his mouth again drew him back up to the creature’s face, which was peering down at him in something that looked like concern, its body hunched over Sherlock’s own.  It struck the Captain then, that this creature wasn’t going to eat him or kill him.  He was clearly showing concern and had helped him from the water, taking him to a calm, safe place and even feeding him some of its own meal.  The Merman was caring for him!  And it was concerned, if the noises it was making was anything to go by.    
  
Soft, careful tones and notes were being produced from it, because no earthly beast could produce such beautiful melodies as the ones the Merman was singing.  Mermaids were said to have been able to sing in both Mermish -the language of the sea- and in human languages, mimicking sounds they’d picked up from sailors all across the globe.  But the Mermen didn’t seem to be able to produce any human based sounds, or at least not this one, and was quite content to make its own melodies as it check him over carefully, probing with seasoned hands that appeared to know what they were doing.  It wasn’t singing, per se, but it was so beautifully close that it almost made Sherlock’s eyes water.    
  
Sherlock closed his eyes in wonder, the sound of the tide rolling in a pleasant backdrop to the haunting cry of the creature basking in the warm water with him was making.  He’d of coursed noticed the many strings of pearls and shells hanging from the creature’s neck, like he had when he’d first laid eyes upon him.  They were decorations of sorts, like humans so often wore, but most of the beads and accents were different, some of them of species he’d never encountered before.  Each strand had been lovingly made by someone with a fine hand, and Sherlock thought perhaps the Merman had made them all himself, since he seemed to be such a solitary creature.  The small glass bottle hanging off a leather strap buried beneath the shells, stones, and pearls was of little interest to him, and so his eyes rolled off it immediately.    
  
What struck a cord within his heart--long since thought dead by so many--was the large, sunburst, radial scar that consumed most of the creature’s left shoulder and part of his upper chest.  It was a newer scar, one that the creature had probably had for months, but not years, and it wasn’t a medically tended wound, so the lines had repaired themselves in jagged, uneven patches.  Captain Holmes knew what made this patterned scar on such a beautiful creature, and deep within himself, knew what whoever had placed the scar there had thought the Merman dangerous, just as he had.  The wound had meant to be fatal, though whoever had shot him had done so poorly, leaving behind the massive mark.     
  
Pistol wounds were such ugly things, after all.    
  
The pirate Captain wondered who had been close enough to the Merman to shoot him, but not to know that he was protective and carrying.  Perhaps someone had startled him  while the creature was stretched out asleep on the beach, sunbathing in the warm Caribbean sun.  Or maybe they’d seen the precious gems and stones strung around its neck and had lured it in with intentions to kill it and then take the worth for themselves?  These scenarios and more raged through Sherlock’s head, making him fret with worry for such a trusting and beautiful creature.  One that was so clearly misunderstood and feared that someone felt it necessary to shoot him.  It made his lack of faith in humanity oddly justified, and somehow this act of violence made him hate himself just that much more.  After all, hadn’t he thought of doing the same thing not all that long ago?    
  
A faint pressure against his chest, where his aching heart lay, drew Sherlock to open his eyes once more, finding the magnificent creature resting there, its head and damp hair splayed against his shoulder.  It was looking at the small magnifying glass that hung on a silver chain around his neck, so often hidden beneath his shirts, one webbed hand touching it gently.  It appeared relatively happy to lay there next to him, reclining to where he was not exactly pinning Sherlock down, but definitely lying on him, studying him just like Sherlock had been doing.    
  
It was very relaxing, he had to admit, to lay here and know that someone was not only protecting and caring for you, but also as fascinated by you as you were of it.  There was no way that this level of peace could possibly be disturbed.    
  
“Captain! Captain Holmes!” Someone called out.  “Captain, where are you?”    
  
Sherlock spoke too soon.    
  
Quick as a flash, the Merman heaved himself off of Sherlock’s chest, tail whipping into action, moving him across the somewhat spacious tide pool in second flat.  It had begun to scale the rocky outcroppings that led to the beach and ocean when some of his crew appeared on the other side.  Thankfully none of them had pistols with them, Sherlock noted as he attempted to sit himself up against the rocks to see where his companion had gone, only to find it trying desperately to get itself unstuck from the rock it had been attempting to climb.  It was crying somewhat loudly, which is probably what had stunned his first mate and the small cluster of crew into stopping as quickly as they had.  Not only were the notes mournful and melancholy, they were also drawing attention.    
  
First Mate Lestrade was the first to respond to the shock, stepping forwards and removing the hat from his head carefully.  He blinked several times, eyes widening each time he opened them again to find the Merman still trapped.    
  
“Captain?” He said hesitantly, finally taking his eyes off the creature and finding his Captain’s form in the rocks below.  “What’s going on here?  Someone said you were still aboard the ship, and that they saw you fall overboard.  But when they went to get you out of the water the golden beast had drug you off!”    
  
“Hm, I did fall overboard.”  He said, his tone bored, dismissive, as if the statement hadn’t been a near death sentence for him.  “And yes, the Merman did grab me.  But he did not try to drown me, the opposite in fact.  He brought me here to safety, supporting us both in the surf.”    
  
“You mean to tell us that its not dangerous?”  Someone else behind Lestrade asked, the female voice somewhat grading, but welcome.  Molly, the little medic’s assistant, Sherlock thought idly, his head spinning slightly as he made to stand.  “But its a mermaid!  They kill people!”    
  
“Merman, actually.  And he’s not dangerous.” Sherlock corrected as he slowly approached the still trapped golden man, the large and delicate tail snagged on the rocks and crevices.  “He’s actually rather docile, and very much stuck.  Lestrade, do help me get him back to the ocean.”    
  
The man in question hurried to scramble down the rock himself, nearly tripping in his haste to make it to his Captain’s side.  His splashing and scrambling was only serving to frighten the creature even more, though, and Sherlock scolded his First Mate appropriately as he approached.  There was no use in upsetting it even more than it already was, and the’d need it calm and helpful when they went to move it.    
  
“I’m going to need you to help me lift him, Greg.  I’m certain I can pick him up, but getting him over the rocks myself would be dicy.”  Captain Holmes explained as he slowly approached the Merman, its fear-filled eyes tracking his every movement. “I’m going to need you to get up to the top so that I can hand him off to you before climbing down the other side myself.”    
  
Greg nodded swiftly before scaling up the rocks near the beast, his feet finding steps where a giant, finned tail could not.  While he moved, the Merman favored watching Greg instead, but only until he got to the top of the rocks, only slightly out of reach from Sherlock, before turning back to watch him once more.  Holding out his hands in a pacified manner, Sherlock slowly bent and gently took the Merman around his torso, just below his arms, and scooped him up.  He moved an arm to just below his tail and back, holding him bridal style against his own chest.  As he thought, the tail was too long, and still drug the ground, which he didn’t want.  It would tear against the sharpness of the rocks and tear the delicate membrane, causing pain and wounding the creature, possibly even causing lameness.    
  
Slowly, oh so slowly, Sherlock moved himself forwards, the Merman’s weight distributed in his arms carefully, the much smaller torso clinging to his shirt front as he moved.  It was making frightened noises deep in its throat, but so far had not tried to escape from him, despite the fact that it couldn’t go anywhere on its own.    
  
“Here Lestrade, take him until I climb over the rocks.  Then on my command, carefully hand him back to me.”  He instructed, carefully transferring the weight to his First Mate, his own hands helping to move the broad tail as soon as his arms were free.  The creature was clearly more wary of Lestrade, but didn’t fuss as he watched Sherlock swiftly make his way over the rocks and into the sand below.  “Alright, now careful with the tail, give him back to me.”    
  
“Aye, Captain.”  Greg repeated dutifully, gently lowering the fish man back into his Captain’s waiting arms, his own delicate touches moving the tail as he followed to the sand below.  “Watch the gills.”    
  
Between the both of them, the Merman’s weight and tail were distributed, and together they made their way back into the surf.  When they were in about knee deep, Sherlock told Greg to place the fins back into the water first, and then help him to lower the rest of the body down.  Once they’d almost sat in the water together, each side of the Merman supported carefully by mindful hands, the creature released its death grip on the Captain’s shirt and laid back into the water.  Sherlock gingerly removed his hands from beneath the great tail and watched in rapt wonder as the serpentine tail flicked once and propelled the Merman away from their combined grip.    
  
Once it was safely at a distance far enough to watch them from, but equally far enough to run from them, the Merman turned back to watch them retreat to the beach, both men soaking wet and grinning like fools.  Lestrade was laughing, clapping his crewmen on the back as he smiled at the site, the Captain watching the sea with bright, excited eyes.  The melodic trill that sprung from the ocean’s surface in thanks was enough to cause the rest of the crew present to whoop into applause, hooting and hollering at their brilliant Captain’s plan to save a mythical sea creature and his First Mate’s undying loyalty to help.    
  
Captain Sherlock Holmes, once thought married to his work, found himself contemplating a prospective relationship with the sea.

 


	4. Stand To Your Guns

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Here we have some necessary character development, some obligatory fighting, and some pretty epic domestically adorable things. Keep in mind that on the sea, news could take months to travel from port to port, and even longer to find someone at sea. This chapter covers quite a few months in a span, so that's why it seems like the plot takes off so quickly.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Like I've said before, this story was already posted to my FF.Net account and is well into the 22 chapter rang. I'm just proofing, correcting, and tiding up in it before I post it here. If you want to read ahead, my FF.Net account is under the same name as my account here. 
> 
> Also, for those interested, I've had fanart drawn and I made art to go along with this story, but I can't figure out just yet how to put it in with all the text. I'll be putting links up to it all soon until I can figure it out.

Almost two months had passed since the crew of The Science of Deduction became aware of their aquatic predator-turned-protector.  Two long months of life on the open sea, raiding merchant ships and dodging the ever swift vessels sent after them from up standing ports.  Their tales of Merman and rogue pirates followed in their unlawful wake, stirring up more rumors about the ever elusive and enigmatic Captain Holmes as the went.  Now, on top of just being a mad man or a slighted lover, he was also a mystic, someone who spoke to the sea and could hear when it spoke back.  One story in particular had even claimed he’d taken on Calypso, Goddess of the Sea, for a lover and was wooing her aboard his ship decks at night.    
  
The entirety of the crew, including Captain Holmes, thought this was so absolutely absurd that it was hilarious.  After all, no one would ever know for certain whether or not the mystic tales were true, and anyone in his crew was loyal enough to both keep the truths out of their stories and the absurd story points so ridiculous that they couldn’t possibly be true.  He didn’t want anyone to know that their ship was carefully guarded by a beast of the sea, one that had come in handy on several occasions during storms or siege battles. Not only would they be hunted by the law, but also others who would wish harm on John would be on the look-out for them.   
  
They’d named the Merman John, or Johnny as some of the crew were fond of calling him, after discovering that the creature could often listen to their singing and pick up on the tunes they’d sing.  It couldn’t reproduce the words or lyrics sang, but the music was something that broke the language barrier.  The first one he’d ever joined in on had been when they’d started singing a crew favorite, _Whiskey For My Johnny_.  The Merman had trilled the higher end of the song along with them, splashing along side the ship as they went about their daily chores, happy to interact with a crew that favored him so.  It was after this that a tradition had been born and the crew had bestowed a name upon John, which cemented him within the crew itself.    
  
Mrs. Hudson would often dote on the man, feeding him left over bits of food that they had scrapped after mess one day, or leave small gifts out on the deck where they all knew the creature often climbed to to watch the main deck. Some of the orphans would show him their toys or small games they’d made up to help pass the time and their boredom, interacting with him like they would with anyone else. The men in the crew had even left the length of knotted rope off the one side, which John used to pull himself up out of the water and closer to the deck on.  He’d sit there content for as long as he could still breathe properly, blue eyes happily watching the crew go about their lives around him.    
  
And no one could miss how happy their reclusive -often sullen and petulant- Captain had become since first interacting with him.  Sherlock, though busy with running his ship, would always take time out of his day to go and sit with John, showing him things like his science equipment or maps that he was studying.  Other times it would happen that Sherlock shared whatever food he was eating at the time with John, which was rare since Sherlock himself only ate sporadically.  But ever since discovering that John had an extreme liking for Jam on bread, the Captain always seemed to have some when on deck.  Without fail, he’d always give it to John, who would smile broadly and devour the treat like it was the only thing keeping him from starving.    
  
Sometimes he’d even show John some of the treasure they’d captured from other vessels, giving John a few of the coins he had in a pouch at his waist and a gold necklace he’d taken from some high born lady a few days back. _There were no passenger ships when pirates sailed. It was too expensive for such frivolity. People sailed with a purpose._   John had returned a few days later wearing the necklace, the coins dangling off the golden chain as if they belonged there, seemingly one with the original strand now.  Sherlock, as well as the rest of the crew, had been baffled on how the Merman had gotten them on the chain to begin with, but were pleased to know that John wore them with so much pride and joy.    
  
After nearly four months at sea since meeting John, the idea of keeping the Merman safe was naturally ingrained into the ship’s crew.  Someone would always explain to John that he should leave when they were to make a run, or hide when another ship approached them.  Though John couldn’t speak back to many of those who spoke to him, he always cooed or nodded his head in understanding, quickly swimming off or diving deep below the waves to wait out whatever it was that was going on above water.  Sherlock never worried for John’s safety when he saw him dive away, until a rather familiar ship came onto the horizon one early morning.    
  
He’d told John to swim away and hide, and not to come out again until Sherlock whistled for him with the small shell whistle that John had presented to the Captain some weeks prior.  They’d been using it as a way of communication, even going so far as to have a basic set of tones that served as a sort of language in replacement for the human words John could never say.  Sherlock or John would whistle out to the boat or sea, and whatever returning tone was sent was whether or not it was safe to approach the ship.  Captain Holmes had told John to hide with such desperation that it had momentarily frightened John, and he’d refused to leave at first, until Sherlock had taken a moment to explain the dangers that they could possibly be facing.    
  
John dived beneath the waves reluctantly just as the other ship’s bell rang.    
  
“Captain, any reason you’re so desperate to get Johnny boy away from the ship before the company approaching makes bark?”  Lestrade had asked carefully, his tone neutral, though Sherlock heard the timber of fear in it.  “I’ve never seen that ship before, and it isn’t sailing the colors of the King.”    
  
“That is because it is not a King’s ship.”  Sherlock quipped back as the other boat pulled along side, both crews preparing for the boarding that was about to take place upon the smaller sea vessel.  “Do not trust a word that the Captain says, or any of the crew.  Do not let them below deck without supervision, and do not say a word about John to any of them.  Do I make myself clear, Lestrade?”    
  
“Aye, aye, Sir!” Lestrade said, turning and whistling shrilly to the rest of the crew with his fingers, a signal to keep calm and quiet, let no one out of their sight.  “All hands, prepare to be boarded!”    
  
The larger ship was more than modern, the decks lavished in an almost extravagant air, each railing and floorboard shined and smoothed over with varnish, the ropes all neatly tied and tended against their spot on the mast and ship sides.  The crew is all well groomed and wearing similar clothing, their appearance tended but not overly so, each one standing at attention.  The Minor Imposition is literally a site to behold, a gem of a ship, Captained by one of the suavest, most brilliant, cut throat men in the Pirates’ Court.

  
And Sherlock Holmes’ Elder Brother.    
  
Not that his crew knew that, of course.    
  
“Ah, Sherlock, so good to see you well.”  A well dressed man said as he stepped down the stairs from the quarterdeck and onto the waist of the ship where the rest of the crew stood at attention, his posh appearance a stark contrast to Sherlock’s own somewhat ragged state.  “It has been far to long.  Tell me, how have you been?”    
  
“Mycroft, it is too soon to see you again.”  Sherlock growled out in warning.  “So do take your little crew and run along and play pirates elsewhere.  I have much more important business to attend to than to listen to you squawk out your demands.”    
  
Sherlock’s crew held their collective breath, unsure of how to act in the presence of this new foe.  The eyes of this unfamiliar Captain are sharp and clear, dark in comparison to their own Captain’s bright blue ones, his dark, somewhat thinning hair regally placed beneath the feathered hat he wore.  He watched each and every one of the other crew with his hawk like eyes, but never seemed to break eye contact with Sherlock, one eyebrow raised in challenge.  He was dangerous, First Mate Lestrade decided, and not to be trusted, regardless of whether or not Sherlock seemed to know who he was.  His Captain’s instructions were still ringing clear in his ears, and he was not about to let any of these men harm anything on this ship.    
  
“As touchy as ever, I see.  Never the less, there is a reason I’ve sought you out for.  A rumor, actually, that has been circulating for some time has just reached my ears.”  He grinned at the word rumor, drawing it out like it was some sort of sin or delectable desert.  “A Mermaid, Sherlock?  You know how foolish that sounds, really.  Mummy would be so disappointed that her little man of science has resorted to tales of mythical monsters in order to further his reputation among sea faring folk.”    
  
Captain Holmes turned his face away as if he’d been slapped by the words spoken, his eyes shut and drawn downwards as he frowned, but refrained from any stinging comments back.  The rest of his crew’s eyes boggled at the mention of this “Mummy Holmes” suddenly realizing just who was standing before them, and just what that implied.    
  
“Captain?” Lestrade said finally, gathering up his courage to stalk forward and put himself in the line of fire.  “Is that really?”    
  
“Yes, unfortunately it is.  Lestrade, meet my elder brother, Captain Mycroft Holmes, and his own First Mate, Anthea, or whatever she’s calling herself these days.  As in the infamous Pirate Court, Captain Mycroft Holmes, how insufferable a name.”  Sherlock replied in distaste, waving off his brother and the imposing woman standing firmly at his right.  “They won’t be staying long, so don’t trouble yourself.  They were just leaving, in fact, weren’t you, Mycroft?”    
  
The man in question let out a suffering sigh as he shut his eyes.    
  
“Sherlock, this is the first time we’ve been faced to face in nearly a year, and you dismiss me so easily?”  Came the worn reply, Sherlock’s brother carefully approaching the side of his ship before mounting the running board between the two decks, swiftly walking it in a few side steps.  “It will not be so simple, I assure you.  And even if I did not have personal business with you, the Pirate Court most certainly does.  You’re drawing too much attention to yourself, little brother.”    
  
“And what do they care of me and my ship?  I’ve not heard from them in years, Mycroft, besides your pompous blowing in my sails.” Sherlock glared at his brother as he stalked closer, resisting the urge to poke the taller man in the chest rabidly, if not bodily fling him from his ship.  “You use their name to call upon me at will.  I’ll have none of it, go call upon some other lackey or ship, but remove yourself from mine.”    
  
Mycroft smirked before his hand snaked forwards, closing in a tight grip in the front of his younger brother’s shirt, yanking him towards him even as his face clouded over.  Of course, upon grabbing the shirt, he also grabbed a fist full of chain from his magnifying glass monocle and the strap for the tiny shell whistle.  The chain for the eye glass hung sound, but the delicate twine holding the shell to Sherlock snapped easily, sending it flying to Mycroft’s feet.  The elder Captain Holmes’ face righted itself quickly, a deep breath and all was right in the world again, the previous anger gone as he stared down at the small sea trinket.  Sherlock dare not move towards it, less he give away how important it was to him, and had to watch as Mycroft released him in favor of picking up the tiny whistle for study.    
  
“This is an interesting piece, brother dear.”  He said lightly, turning the small pink shell over in his hands tenderly, studying the tiny holes bore into the sides and the curled end that was cut off at the tip.  “A whistle, if I’m not mistaken, but not something you’d see from any local crafts person.  A native, perhaps, but not any of the now civilized ones.  Strange that you’d have something so foreign on your ship.”    
  
Sherlock’s spine tightened in worry as his brother continued to go over the little spiral shell as if it held the secrets to the world.  It would only take one shrill note from the whistle to summon John back to the ship, something Sherlock and the crew was very aware of.  And Sherlock would never let Mycroft take John, which is exactly what would happen if his brother blew any sort of note into that whistle.    
  
“Return it, Mycroft.  It is not yours to play with.”  Sherlock said evenly, attempting to control the rage boiling away at his insides.  “Nor am I or this crew your toys.”    
  
“On the contrary, Sherlock.  You’re all at my beck and call, however much you refuse to acknowledge it.” Mycroft replied with a sadistic smile, whistle momentarily forgotten.  “But you cannot distract me from blowing the little instrument for long.  I’m quite well aware of your distraction attempts.  But the question is burning away at me... Why don’t you want me to blow the whistle?”    
  
Captain Holmes the younger refused to reply.    
  
“Does it summon your mysterious Mermaid friend, Sherlock?”  Mycroft inquired in a mocking tone, Sherlock’s tight lipped silence all the answer he needed.  “Sometimes I do so worry about your mental health.”    
  
Mycroft handed the flimsy necklace back over to Sherlock when he didn’t get a response yet again, a sigh once more on his lips.  Really now, this whole thing had been about Mycroft’s worry for his younger brother, and here he was, once again, fighting for any sort of conversation between them.  Was it so much to ask for?  Could he really not just have a few moments of ease with his own flesh and blood?    
  
“If it is truly what you want, Sherlock, I will go.”  He said finally, turning back to the boarding plank splayed between the two ships.  “But always keep in mind that I’m watching over you.  You know how I worry.”    
  
Sherlock made some mocking noise in the back of his throat, the tone disbelieving about Mycroft’s motives behind his actions.  The elder Holmes could do nothing but sigh once more and shake his head sadly.    
  
“You’ll never know what it’s like to worry like I do, Sherlock.”  He said finally.  “But I hope one day you’ll understand.”


	5. Goodbye Far You Well

After Mycroft’s swift departure, the larger ship moving at speeds that boggled most of Sherlock’s crew completely, the Captain had slumped down into his chair on the upper deck and studied the gift from John in silence for quite some time.  He did not get up, he did not move except to twirl the tiny whistle, and he did not call John back from hiding.  Hours passed and yet, Sherlock didn't move from his sulk on the poop deck.  His eyes never traveled very far from the smaller shell wound around his hands, and even when they did, it was only to stare out into the ocean.  Sherlock was quite clearly lost in his own mind, thoughts trouble going on the storm clouds brewing above his brow.    
  
When night had fallen, and still Sherlock had not moved, Lestrade went to investigate.  Because when Mrs. Hudson had come back carrying a full tea service with not a bit touched, not even the tea, and most certainly not the strawberry preserves in the small dish near a slice of bread, she’d started to worry.  And when she began to worry, everyone knew it.  Mrs. Hudson was a woman who knew how to twist a man’s arm, or in this case, a man’s conscious to guilt.  With only a few well placed words of concern, she’d sent Lestrade running for the upper decks and their Captain.    
  
“Captain, you’ve been sitting here for hours.  I know the encounter with your brother has shaken you up, but you need to pull yourself together.” Lestrade sighed, running his hands through his hair, long since in need of a good cut now after months at sea. “We need orders.  We need our Captain, Captain.”    
  
Sherlock sighed before standing swiftly, the whistle still crushed into his left hand.  He was still staring out at the ocean with a distant look, but the calculating gleam had sprung back to his face full force.  The casual smirk slowly wormed its way back full force as Sherlock spun just as quickly as his intellect had, the entire sulky situation doing an entire spin before settling once more.    
  
“Our heading is to Tortuga, Lestrade.”  Captain Holmes said suddenly, as if the past half a day meant nothing.  “We’ll move out as soon as I tend to some unfinished business.”    
  
“John, Captain?” Greg said knowingly, the tight smile adorning his face once more as he  placed his hat back on his head.  At least the Captain was back on his feet once more.  “I was worried you weren’t going to call him back.  He waits on you, you know.  Waits for your words like a dying man waits for water in the desert isles.”    
  
“I know, Lestrade.  And I intend to make sure that my demands are known.”  He replied as he strode down the stairs towards the side of the ship that John frequented so often.  Sherlock could be so clinical, Lestrade thought, when he wanted to be.  “Make sure the men are ready to move out while I inform John of where we’re going, and why he cannot go with us to Tortuga.”    
  
Lestrade balked.    
  
“But Captain!”    
  
“Lestrade!  Think about it for just a second, would you?  John cannot go to Tortuga with us, it is just not safe for him.  It is filled with pirates and filth much lower than ourselves.  And indeed, with lower morals.”  The Captain snarled out, his tone anything but understanding or moving.  “If anyone saw him, and I mean anyone, he could die.”  
  
“You know he won’t listen to you Sherlock.  He’ll follow you to the end of the world and back, our John will.”  Lestrade was serious now, eyeing up his Captain carefully.  “The sun rises and sets on you, to him.  To Hell and back he’d go.”    
  
Sherlock just waved the man off before quickly pulling the whistle to his mouth and giving a single, sharp blow, the harsh tone shrieking out across the waves with intense purpose.  Greg just rolled his eyes at his Captain’s blatant disregard for what he had to say, knowing full well that the man had heard every word he said.  He always seemed to do that, blow his words off in favor of his own, much rasher decisions or ideas, even if Sherlock knew that they weren’t the best idea or just flat out wrong.  Sometimes he just wanted to punch the man right in the face...  
  
The sudden melodic response from the water was all the warning the crew needed to know that John was back, the Merman slowly pulling himself up the side of the boat, using the rope and rigging left there specifically for him as leverage.  His webbed hands gripping the railing on the ship was all it took for Sherlock to stride over to perch there, resting against the rigging so that he could face John, who had situated himself on the ship’s edge carefully, almost touching shoulders with the mad Captain.  The Merman was grinning ear to ear at Sherlock, waiting patiently, like any good pet would at his master’s call.  And as much as it hurt Sherlock to tell John to keep away -even if it was for his own good- he had to do it.  To protect him.  To protect John from monsters much less mythical than Merfolk or sea monsters.    
  
“John, I need you to listen to me for a moment.  I need you to promise me...”  Sherlock started uneasily, unsure of how to make his demand ring true.  “I need you to not follow us to port.  We’re headed for Tortuga, and it is dangerous, even more so now that I know my brother and his ship are potentially at port and watching my every move.  You cannot follow us.”    
  
John’s smile fell away, his brows furrowing in a manner that could resemble human confusion, though not quite.  His expressions had been getting more and more human like the more time he spent around the crew, Sherlock had noted, and this was no exception.  It only made what Sherlock require more difficult, especially when that voice trilled out something that could be taken as musical questions and in no way resembled the human assertion that John understood why he could not go.  It was at times like this that the language barrier was incredibly detrimental to what Sherlock wanted, and what he was trying to tell John.    
  
“You cannot follow us, not this time John.” Captain Holmes reiterated, eyes locked onto John’s now, stormy sky blue to crystal clear oceans.  “Wait for us to leave port, I will try to make the stay as brief as possible.  But do not follow us to shore.”    
  
John was issuing all sorts of heart-breaking noises now, one webbed hand coming to grip at Sherlock’s arm and shirt sleeve, tugging on it as he tried to lean forward to understand Sherlock better, the proximity a way to that.  Merfolk apparently talked very close to one another, because every time John went to talk to anyone, he got very, very close to their face, and very close to them personally.  The crew, and indeed the Captain, had taken the quirk into stride, but now it only hindered what Sherlock was trying to get across to the Merman.  John needed to understand that he could not follow them where they were going next.    
  
“Please, John.  Promise me you won’t follow us, not this time.”  Sherlock said, taking the tiny whistle and making a long, drawn out note on it, one they used for showing understanding between them in conversations past.  John turned sharply to stare at the whistle before his blue eyes moved back to Sherlock’s own, sadness and confusion still present.  “You have to promise me, John!”    
  
John responded with the drawn out note before releasing Sherlock quickly and diving back over the edge of the ship and into the dark water below.  The golden tail flashed in the lamp light as he moved beneath the water, his body agile in the water and he effortlessly sank beneath the surface waves and into the briny depths.  Sherlock did not know where he went when he was not sitting at ship side with the crew, but he hoped that wherever it was, that it was better than Tortuga ever would be.    
  
Because John was a lot more than just a Merman...he was completely innocent.    
  
Innocent in ways that humans -no matter how young- could ever be.  
  
Sherlock would not let anything ruin that beauty, not even himself.     
  
“Lestrade, weigh anchor.  To Tortuga!”  The Captain’s tone was tight, but even as it always was, though he still wasn’t moving from his spot on the railing.  “And do not disturb me until we make dock.”    
  
“Aye, Captain.”    
  
\--  
  
The trip to Tortuga was a grueling and horrible process, the tiny little island far harder to get to now than it once was, way back when the ship’s crew and pirating was first starting out.  Sure, pirates had existed for much longer than most of them had been alive, but it had only increased in activity in the last few years, and subsequently, so had the British Royal Navy’s involvement with the West Indies and Caribbean Islands.    Now it was almost impossible to make the run from anywhere remotely near Port Royal or any other British settlement port, as there was often a few ships in a loose blockade about the Spanish port.  And even though the Spanish had not taken the insult lying down, it was hardly making a difference to any sort of God-fearing pirate.    
  
Tortuga, once a flourishing port for more than just pirates or foreign trade, had slowly become a seedy hole for the scum of the sailing community.  Even the local fair had slowly been strained out, the natives to the island forced mostly away by the original settlement, and those original settlers by the pirates and ruffians who followed the sailing rumors.  Those had in turn been weeded out by a combination of fear (mostly of the British and Spanish Navies), old age, and a reluctance to make the dangerous run to get to a port that was falling out of favor.  It was a port both Captain Holmes’ hated with a passion, and yet it sometimes served its purpose.    
  
It would serve its purpose now.    
  
As soon as they’d made port, Sherlock leapt onto the pier and strode off towards the nearby taverns, searching out someone he needed to see.  Though he hated the woman with a passion, and in turn she hated him, it was a necessary exchange of information and goods.  But first he’d need to find where Sally Donovan, or as the locals knew her Sharp Sally, was hiding at. It wasn’t her real name, of course, just one given to her by men from cultures who couldn’t pronounce her native name, but it fit none the less, even when she’d married a local fisherman some years earlier and had taken his last name. The man, Samuel Donavan, had been lost at sea one day and never returned to port, where his wife waited for him day after day after day.  Rumors said that it caused her to go slightly mad and definitely bitter, which is where her sharp witted tongue developed from, and her hatred of others as well.    
  
He’d start his search up at his more familiar haunt, Brethren of the Coast, a tavern that had far outlived any other here on Tortuga, and run by some of the few men outside of his crew that Sherlock Holmes would care to trust.  A one Paul Dimmock, and his partners Tobias Gregson and Stanley Hopkins, had always been rather keen on him, ever since he’d discovered that some of the patrons had been planning on selling out the three to the British Royal Navy.  Sherlock had put a quick stop to the plot -mainly for selfish purposes, as it would have interfered with the plans he’d had regarding the bar and inn- but found a reliable set of new allies and a safe haven while in port.    
  
Now he hoped to call on them once more for a favor he hadn’t quite been willing to part with, but needed nonetheless.  If anyone knew where Sharp Sally was spending her days, it would be one of them.  And though he loathed to go and talk to the spiteful woman, it was necessary to what he hoped was a way to free his crew and John from threat.  If anyone knew how to sneak about past watchful eyes, it would be Sally, and with the help of her Haitian magics and intelligence network on the island, Sherlock would easily outmaneuver all that stood in his way.  Not even his brother would know what hit him.    
  
The tavern was just as he remembered it, Sherlock noticed faintly, the warmth of the large stone fireplace bellowing heat into the open room, patrons drinking merrily with one another at several long tables placed before the roaring blaze.  The smells of sweat, cooking meats, and stale beer assaulted him from every direction imaginable, a lingering odor of pipe smoke faintly underlying the raunchiness of the scents combined.  Even the bar, a long and fairly dented piece that was carved with more foul pictures and words than the walls in a whore house, was still faintly gleaming in the low light, the bar woman standing behind it polishing the glasses with a horribly sad, faraway look to her eyes.    
  
Clara, his brain finally supplied, was her name, and she had served in this bar for as long as Sherlock had been coming here.  Her well worn face and long dark hair still set into their customary ways, the braid falling over her shoulder as she absently used a rag to dry out mugs that had been rinsed out just moments prior to his arrival.  But her faraway look wasn’t something normal, and despite wanting to get out of here as fast as possible, Sherlock vaguely wondered what was wrong.  But that was before he’d spotted Dimmock, who’d just emerged from the door leading to the store room behind the bar.  Clara also noticed the man’s reappearance, and quickly burst out into sobs before fleeing back through the door Paul had just come out of, the man’s eyes following her as she raced off.    
  
“Has something dire happened in my absence?”  Sherlock shot to the man carefully, his face neutral, but his tone good natured. Dimmock could always tell when he meant in jest and what he did not, regardless of how his face was set.  “Or do all your barmaids burst into tears at the mere sight of me?”    
  
Dimmock sent a rather nasty glare in his direction before blinking once, the recognition of who had spoken quickly filling his eyes as he smiled and approached Sherlock’s end of the bar.  The man’s apron was stained and spotted in the familiar places, the few grey hairs at the man’s temple shining silver in the candle light.  It was hard to admit that Dimmock -as well as Sherlock and everyone else he knew- was getting older now, and the stress of living in such a seedy port was clearly taking its tolls out on him.    
  
“Holmes, good to see you.  I wish I could have better tidings, my friend, other than tears of broken hearts and fish wives.”  Paul’s tone was bogged down with a sense of tiredness found in men twice his age.  “But I’m afraid it is not to be.”    
  
“Oh?  And why’s that?  I had thought that to see familiar faces was always such a good thing.” Now Sherlock was curious.  What had been happening here since his last visit, nearly half a year or more before?  “Unless of course it is because of some new blockade I was unaware of.”    
  
“Good to see familiar faces, yes, and there is no blockade or even any new traps that I am aware of.  It is only when we lose a familiar face that such a bout of grief happens, or someone who we thought loved us.  They killed her suitor just this morning.”  A pint was set before both men by Dimmock’s own hands, the barrel freshly tapped and smelling sweet in the clinging air.  “Clara was bewitched by a Mermaid.”    
  
That immediately caught the Captain’s attention.    
  
“What did you say?”  Sherlock’s tone had taken on a dangerous edge, his eyes steeling in the low light, preparing for the worst.  “When did this happen, tell me everything.  Even the smallest of details.  What did the Mermaid look like?”    
  
Had John ignored him and beaten them to port, only to be discovered by an early rising barmaid and then killed by superstitious men for merely being friendly?  How long had John let himself be seen by such a foolish woman for others to notice his attentions and track him?  To trap him?  To...kill him?    
  
Oh god, thought Sherlock, please do not let it be John.    
  
“I can show you, if you like.  They saved the body and strung it up at the far dock gallows, as a sort of warning for others in the area not to let the beauty fool you.  I saw the teeth, the claws it had.  They were horrible.”  Paul said, just as serious, his eyes meeting Sherlock’s own without hesitation, breaking the panicking Captain out of his own mental horrors.  “You’re welcome to examine it to your hearts content, Clara refuses to go to the beach or docks anymore.  She’s been a wreck since they caught the beast and left it to hang.”    
  
“Yes, take me to it.  I need to see the body for myself.”  Holmes demanded with all his worth.  “I need to see the proof.”    
  
Sherlock prayed desperately that it wasn’t John.


	6. Hanging Johnny

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Have been watching way too Mermaid and Merman videos on youtube. The Mertailor have some of the most beautifully made tails I’ve ever seen. The Silicon ones are probably my favorite, and the work put into all of them is intense. While looking up references to how Merfolk would move in the water, I watched several of their demo videos and was extremely impressed. The sculpting and decorations that go into some of these are so impressively well done that it just blows my mind. 
> 
> Here are a couple of my favorites: 
> 
> http:// www. youtube. com/ watch? v=uMVEYS7Gc -4&feature= fvwrel  
> http:// www. youtube. com/ watch? v=a2qtyWMoEUw&feature= related  
> http:// www. youtube. com/ watch? v=ywX63otlTec&feature= related  
> http:// www. youtube. com/ watch? v=sDpiswssISw
> 
> Also watched a lot of Pirates of the Caribbean references from On Stranger Tides, which is probably my favorite movie out of all of them, for some of my ideas. And not just for the Mermaids, which are pretty awesome, the whole Tortuga and tavern settings, as well as general dispositions of pirates and sailors of that time frame. I realize, there are no god fearing men or women in my story...whoops.

It was easy to see in the brightly lit streets and docks that the creature hanging from the gallows was easily seven foot long from head to tip, and had a large ruffled tail that dragged the ground uselessly. So much like John’s own magnificent tail, the unbidden thought came quickly, raging itself to the front of the Captain’s mind.  It was also easy for him to see the faint golden sheen that the tail and hair gave off, even from this distance, and the brief flashes of color made Sherlock’s breath catch in his throat painfully on top of the already distressing thoughts.  Although Sherlock had never seen another Mermaid or Merman, even he knew that not all of them would look so much alike to one another.    
  
And from here, the finned creature hanging by its bound hands (back to him as it bled out into the water and wooden dock below) looked so much like John that Sherlock had to actually resist the urge to increase his pace.  But he continued to calmly walk along side Dimmock as they made their way off the road, over the slight patch of beach that separated the fisher’s wharf from the cobble street, and onto the rickety wooden docks.  He had to, he had to have time to prepare himself for what it increasingly looked like he would find.  Now, after months and months of interacting with John and slowly coming to realize that the Merman was something more than just an interesting scientific pursuit -a friend, even- his only outright attempt at getting John to safety had backfired.  John hadn’t listened, as Lestrade had warned, and had gone ahead of them to port, awaited their arrival, and in his endless innocence, gotten himself killed.    
  
All of it was Sherlock’s fault.  
  
He took a deep breath.     
  
Carefully, ever so carefully, Holmes’ hand reached out and touched the cold and clammy body, immediately reminding him that it was more fish than human.  The deep blue blood that traced patterns down the scales and through the matted hair were painting a picture of an agony filled end, not something Sherlock wished on anyone.  The once powerful tail had been rendered useless by long cuts done to it before death, he was certain, and there were many wounds done up and down the body’s length.  But these grisly details were also showing him something that sparked a bit of hope deep within him, something that slowly blossomed into a warm feeling of surprise and something else.    
  
The hair was too long even in the back, and not quite the right shade of golden brown that John’s was, being a few shades lighter in places that it shouldn’t be.  And though the tail was just like Johns in color and tone, it was slimmer and more elegant than the Merman’s, and went farther up the back and sides in places by means of the scales.  But not only was the tail different, the entire upper torso was as well, and the gills that Sherlock was so familiar with were not in the right place.  They were too far up the sides beneath the arms, not down on the rib cage where they should be, and they were a deeper color than John’s own.  This was not John, he realized suddenly, it was too feminine a form.    
  
This was not a Merman at all...    
  
This was not John.    
  
Long fingers grasped at the tail slightly, giving it a slight push in order to turn it so that the body was facing him.  As it turned, more hair that had been tucked in front of the arms -because of the head’s bowed position- blew into view, and there were more shells and decorations around this beast’s neck than John ever wore.  But that was not what startled Sherlock so.  The Mermaid, because it was indeed the beautifully elusive and deadly sex of the species, looked strikingly like John did in the face and upper torso features.  Soft blue eyes forever starred towards the water, familiar sharp teeth showing beneath faintly pink lips, the soft features turned sharp in death.    
  
The hair that would have been beautiful tresses was matted and clumped with blood and sand, but if it had been done like the creatures wore it, it would have been similar to John’s own hair color and part.  And though so much longer, almost by several feet now that he got a good look at it, it had the familiar sandy texture and slight curl to it.  It wasn’t John, no, but it was more than likely part of John’s family, however extensive that was.  Seeing as how Sherlock had no idea how Merfolks mated or reproduced, it was likely that John had a rather large family, and because most Mermaid stories had them living in pods or schools like other fish, there was no telling how many others were out there that looked like John did.    
  
“They found it and Clara interacting on the beach this morning, down the cove a bit, and out of the main sight of town.  Apparently it showed a few days ago as well and sang out to Clara, ensnaring her in its song and luring her away.”  Paul said quietly as he came to an abrupt stop some feet back from the body.  “Some of the old men watched Clara go and saw it swimming at the end of the pier after her and followed, but weren’t able to find or follow her.  By the second time they got to the beach after her, it had Clara on the ground and was urging her into the surf after it.”    
  
“She was willingly following it into the water?  Or was she sitting in the tide and interacting with it?” Sherlock couldn’t help the brisk tone, but he knew that if he held any other sort of emotion, his concentration would break and he would start smiling in joy.  It wasn’t John, but it was still a dead Mermaid.  “Did anyone hear singing or the tones associated with them?”    
  
“Not that I know of, no.  It would have alerted someone to Clara’s side much quicker than old fishing men with nets and spears, that’s for sure.”  Paul tried to smile and failed, his eyes old and tired as he stared out over the water.  “These are dark times, Sherlock, and even darker now if such creatures as the Merfolk are being driven out of their homes and closer to such populated shores.  It makes me wonder what is happening to their own homes to drive them away.”    
  
Dark curls ruffled at the sharp turn of head, some catching in the light sea breeze that had started up again, the clanking of the chains and rope rigging around the Mermaid moving in the silence between the two.  Sherlock was a bit surprised to hear such a thing from Dimmock, a long time bar tender and hard ironed sea man.  Everyone heard stories about how evil and deadly Mermaids were, himself included.  And even he had believed them until John had taught him differently. But he’d been interacting with John for months now. So then why would Dimmock say something so strange and oddly insightful to him?    
  
Something clicked into place.    
  
“You knew Clara was seeing it.”  It was a statement, not a question.  “You knew that Clara had a Mermaid lover in the sea, and yet you did nothing.  For how long did you watch them before you realized that she would come to no harm at the creature’s hands?”    
  
Dimmock did laugh sharply at that, a hand splaying across his face and back through his hair as he took another step forward towards both Sherlock and the once beautiful body hanging behind him.  It was a crime really, that such a magnificent and beautiful creature was murdered so carelessly, so horribly.  She had probably truly enjoyed Clara’s company, and had wished to be with her if it was courting her as such.  Mermaids could easily lure people to the sea with their siren songs, ensnaring them into puppets and dragging them out to sea.  But this one hadn’t done that, just as John hadn’t done it.    
  
“The Mermaid has been here for many months, Sherlock.  It has been seeing Clara for nearly that long, and would only come out if she were near the water.  It hid from others beneath the docks and water.  I was with her the first time it appeared close enough to sing for her, and I’m guessing it didn’t see me at first.”  Dimmock pulled something out of his apron pocket gently, handing it over to Sherlock.  “It had given this to her some time ago, and it never left her neck.  Clara didn’t want it anymore after this morning.”    
  
The tiny strand of white colored pearls that Sherlock now held were much like the ones John wore, but it was the familiar shape of the tiny shell whistle at the center of the design that really got his attention.  Though it was a different type of spiraled shell than the one tucked under his own shirt, it was nonetheless designed as his own whistle was. The tiny groves and holes for the notes were hollowed out smoothly and consistently, just like his own were. Like it had been adapted for just this purpose.    
  
Sherlock’s hand flew to his own shell without thought, tugging it out from under his clothing in an instant, comparing the two side by side.  He didn’t even notice Paul’s sharp intake of breath or the quick steps towards him, and he most certainly didn’t care when the second pair of hands reached out to touch the necklace in Sherlock’s hand.  It was his, the Captain realized suddenly and with such ferociousness that he nearly cut his palm open by closing his fist around the shell so quickly and so tightly.  No one was allowed to touch this secret part of their lives that John had gifted to him and only him.    
  
One whistle...one response call...one Mer.    
  
“By the tides, Sally was right...”  Sherlock finally heard Paul say over the roaring sound of the thoughts racing in his head.  “You have been Touched.  I didn’t understand why you were so worried about the Mermaid at first, but I understand now.  What she said was true!”    
  
“Sally, I haven’t even asked you where she was hiding at this time yet?  How could you possibly know I was looking for her?”  Sherlock’s face scrunched up in slightly puzzlement, the shells momentarily forgotten.  “And what has she been snapping off about me this time?  It isn’t more of that Freak nonsense, is it?”    
  
“She said you were coming and that you were bringing something the likes of which we’d never seen in Tortuga before.  She didn’t explain anymore than that, but she said that you and your crew had been Touched.”  Paul explained in a hurry, his face excited but lighted by a hint of fear that Sherlock was certain he could somewhat understand.  “You’ve been Touched by the Merfolk!”    
  
“Dimmock, you need to calm yourself and listen very carefully to me.  This cannot get out to anyone, do you understand?  It is of the utmost importance.”  Sherlock stressed, his tone taking an edge that it only ever did with his brother or perceived threats.  “Now take me to Sharp Sally.  It seems I have some unfinished business to tend to with her.”    
  
\--  
  
Sharp Sally had a small shanty on the outskirts of Tortuga’s main settlement, the rocks and debris from the sea creating a weather barrier and a handy little niche where she’d set up her home.  The shack had been there for the past three years or so, since her original home had been destroyed in the hurricane storm not long before Sherlock had met her.  And though she did have a semi-permanent home, she was rarely ever there, as Sherlock had found when he’d gone looking for her before.    
  
But the small shack was decorated in an odd mixture of eclectic decorations and what Sherlock thought was parts needed for Haitian Voodoo Magics.  Though he could never prove that Sharp Sally actually practiced any sort of actual Voodoo or magic in general -not that he’d believed in the sort of thing until a few months ago when he’d first met John- he had a strong suspicion that she did deal with less than savory people.  And regardless of whether or not she actually did spend her nights drenched in chicken blood, she was still useful when she agreed to see him.    
  
Though by the way Dimmock had talked, the woman was already searching him out.  
  
And unfortunately, Dimmock had refused to come with him down to the rocky beach that served as her home.     
  
“You’re late, Freak.”  The woman’s voice was grating at best, Captain Holmes thought, watching the lean figure of the woman he was searching for saunter out from beneath the curtained door of the hut.  “You were supposed to be here hours ago.”    
  
“Do pardon my tardiness, Sally.  You know how I do hate to keep you waiting.”  He smirked as he climbed the last few steps down into the grotto, the broken planking and torn material sails of dead ships cluttering the area in a semblance of a ship graveyard.  “Such happy decor you have here.  I’m glad you decided to redecorated finally, the hanging, dead chickens were such a tacky decor.”    
  
Sally snorted faintly, though it was a vaguely unamused sound, her bangles and bone jewelry clanking together as she walked.  She still didn’t believe in wearing shoes since her feet were as bare and dirty as ever, her long brown skirts worn and ragged at the edges where they dragged the ground or were caught in the tide when she waded out to sea each morning.  It was where she saw the most, was how she’d replied when Sherlock had asked, and it was where she was most apt to drown him if he didn’t control his insolence and waggling tongue.  She’d even threatened to cut it off once and feed it to the crows, which he didn’t doubt she’d at least try before he got her close enough to disarm and incapacitate.    
  
“Just as nasty as ever, I see.  You’ll never learn any manners, will you Holmes.”  It wasn’t a question, Sally coming to a stop a few feet from them in the sand, her hands on her hips and a nasty smirk on her lips.  “Just as well, you won’t be living long enough   for them to be doing you any good anyways.  The sea says you’ve been Touched by one of the Merfolk, and now that you’re close enough, I can see it _all over you_.”    
  
“That is beside the point, Sally dear.  I’m here for your advice on how-”  
  
“Oh, you’re here for my advice now, are you Freak?”  Sally quickly cut off whatever he was about to say, her tone deadly and precise.  Her deep brown eyes glowed faintly in the singular lamp hanging from the outside of her hut, the mass of rope and old rigging casting shadows about her face.  “No, I think you’re here to listen.”  
  
Sherlock sputtered, his face quickly turning to outrage.    
  
How dare she!  
  
“The Trickster Man is coming, Sherlock Holmes, and he’s coming for all that you hold dear.”  Sally said suddenly, her eyes rolling towards the sky slightly, and eerie silence falling over the grotto as the light sea breeze that had been blowing since he’d arrived suddenly died.  “Beware the blood that runs in your veins, not all are bound as thickly by blood as they are by gold or business.  And caution those who sail beneath the water’s tender hold, so that they might see the sun rise upon the forth day of sailing to the sun.”  
  
Holmes stood ram-rod straight, any extra movements freezing suddenly in the wake of such a powerful warning.  Clearly Sally was having a vision, her pose going loose in places and fluid as if listen to some music only she could hear. Sherlock thought that perhaps she’d been indulging in the hallucinogenics yet again, and that was why she always felt it necessary to give him warnings that were simply so absurd that he couldn’t help but brush them off.  And really, The Trickster Man?  What was more vague than that?  Not to mention no one could sail beneath the water’s tender hold, seeing as how anyone who wasn’t aquatic in nature would certainly drown, and as far as he knew, fishes didn’t sail.    
  
But she continued to sway, the breeze starting to blow again gently, her feet drawing random patterns in the sand beneath their feet.  He’d always thought that Sally was a little bit off her rocker, but each time he sought her out for some obscure herb or piece of advice, she only seemed to get stranger and stranger.  Time was doing such cruel things to her, it seemed.    
  
Sally stopped dancing.    
  
“ _They call me hanging Johnny, hooray, hooray!  They call me hanging Johnny; hang, boys, hang.._.” Her tone was light and airy, even though the lyrics cut through the air to Sherlock faster than any amount of hot lead ever could. He hadn’t told her John’s name, and nothing with Sally was ever a coincidence. “ _I’d hang to make things jolly, hooray, hooray!  I’d hang all wrong and folly; hang, boys, hang._ ”    
  
Fleeing seemed like a good idea at the time.    
  
He’d deny with his dying breath that Sally’s chilling laughter scared him into practically running back to Tortuga.


	7. A Hundred Years From Now

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Here are how I imagined John and Sherlock to look in this story, the clothing changing somewhat throughout of course, but the general pirate look, as well as how John’s Merman looks in my head. There’s also some spoiler pics in my gallery if you look around, so I’ll post those when appropriate in the story, along with the rest of the fan art. 
> 
> http:// maddhatter13. deviantart.com /#/d4qy3qe  
> http:// maddhatter13. deviantart. com/ gallery/ #/ d4rknti  
> http:// maddhatter13. deviantart.com /#/d4qnetw
> 
> Also some fanart done by several artists:
> 
> http:// maddhatter13. deviantart. com/ favourites/ #/ d52ndw6  
> http:// maddhatter13 .deviantart. com/ favourites/ #/ d4wh0rj  
> http:// maddhatter13. deviantart. com/ favourites/ #/ d4v7s3s  
> http:// maddhatter13. deviantart. com/ favourites/ #/ d4v7skt
> 
> PS: I picture Michael Fassbender as my head-canon Moran, just FYI. So when I describe him, I’m picturing that lovely man, who I think would make a kick-ass Sebastian Moran.

Upon reaching the tavern once more, Sherlock decided he was going to get very, very drunk.    
  
He’d run the whole way back practically, nearly tripping and stumbling over jutting rocks and debris on Sally’s coveted beach, then over the cobblestones and garbage in the streets when he’d made it back to the settlement.  When he’d finally seen the sight of others he’d let out a breath he didn’t know he’d been holding, all the tension being held tight in his shoulders and neck finally causing him actual pain.  The dull thudding of his heart was roaring in his ears once more, as they had when Dimmock told him of the Mermaid’s death, but now it was for completely different reasons.    
  
At least now he knew that whatever he was supposed to be doing, it wasn’t going to involve sailing towards the sun.  Sherlock had taken it to mean that they wouldn’t be sailing to the East without running into enemy ships or problems, which was fine by him, seeing as how he didn’t want any of his crew dead.  There was plenty of loot to be had in the West Indies, and if it meant missing the British Royal Navy or his elder brother’s spider-like network, then he was all over it.  No sense in looking a gift horse in the mouth, and all that.  He could be defiant at the best of times, sure, but that did not mean that Sherlock was limited to such foolish endeavors.  Captain Holmes the younger could be just as clever, if not more so, than his brother and all of the Royal British Navy combined.    
  
Not that he was completely paralyzed by Sharp Sally’s biting words in any way, really.  They would eventually have to sail East at some point, but he didn’t plan on doing so for a very long time, and when they did, he’d only do it with John well out of sight.  The Merman was the only one that he couldn’t really keep as safe as the rest of the crew, seeing as how he couldn’t stay on the ship for long periods of time without drying out to the point of suffocation.  And even when he’d thought of putting him down in the holds of the ship, where the water was deep enough for him to move around, he had come to the conclusion that he could not imprison John in such a manner.  Sherlock could never do that to part of his crew.    
  
Because no one was going to threaten his crew, which John was now more than apart of.    
  
Not even himself.    
  
When he’d finally pushed back through the doors of the Brethren of the Coast, part of his crew greeted him with hearty cheers and salutes of ale.  It wasn’t that he hadn’t expected them to follow him ashore, quite the contrary, it was just that they normally spread out among the town so much that he rarely saw them again until it was time to leave.  But now there was a good third of his crew crowding the doors, drinks of choice punctuating the people liberally, song and conversation rising and falling with the swarm of people.  It was well past warm in the crowded room, but it wasn’t stifling as Sherlock had expected it to be when he stepped down into the throng.    
  
Of course Sherlock could easily make his way around the room without troubles, his lithe form and exceptional height adding to the ease greatly, and so as he moved, he kept one eye on his crew, and another on unfamiliar figures.  There were a few, of course, this was a bar in Tortuga, and seedy was hardly the proper word to cover what the pirate port had to offer in terms of other people.  But there was one man standing with his back to the room, tucked into the corner where the bar met the far back wall, that was giving him some pause.    
  
It was a feeling of dread upon seeing the familiar tufts of dark reddish-brown hair that seemed to move independently of the wafting air created by rowdy patrons, and one of ill ease upon seeing the somewhat neatly trimmed beard when the man in question turned to meet his eyes dead on, without any sort of hesitation.  Steel grey met ice blue as the strength of their silent wills collided roughly, and it was without a doubt that Sherlock knew who he was looking at.  After all, they’d met face to face once before during his expulsion from England, just as he was stealing his ship right out from under them.  They’d met the second time when he’d made a run on a heavily guarded port that the man’s ship had been stationed in, the weapons aboard both ships sending shockwaves through the ocean proper.    
  
Sebastian Moran.    
  
Rumor was that he was the Commander for Commadore James Moriarty, Captain of The Westwood, an elite Naval War Ship specially crafted for its speed and dexterity.  The ship itself was not as large as most full out battle ships, but it was crafty, quick in the water, and had the deadly capacity to sneak up upon its enemies with frightful ease.  Throw in the Captain, who was a strategical and mathematical genius employed by the Crown, and in full the ship was practically a death sentence to all who crossed her.  Her crew was just as deadly as the ship was, and to that Sherlock could attest, personally.  He’d met Moriarty and Moran in a confrontation a few times before, once upon his escape from England’s prison ship, and another just off the cape of Port Royal, where he’d been helping a crew member’s family escape from execution.    
  
Sherlock had, of course, escaped both times, but it was hardly what would be called breaking even.  His ship had been riddled with holes from canon fire, some of his crew had been incapacitated for weeks after due to wounds or other collateral damage incurred during the fire fight, and some were so afraid that they’d jumped ship the next time they were near an inhabited island. Sherlock couldn't blame them, though he thought it a cowardly move.  He prided himself on the fact that his crew was loyal and willing to fight for what they wanted, having overcome adversity in the past in order to join his crew.  He only took the carefully selected few, and if you made it onto his ship, it was a right of passage in its own class.    
  
But James Moriarty had it out for him, that much was clear, seeing as how he and his brother Mycroft were some of the few to ever have evaded his tender grasp. And evade it carefully they both had, Mycroft using his own vast naval resources, and Sherlock through the grace of his on land networks that span many different ports and islands.  Between the two, it was a wonder Moriarty ever caught wind of them.  Though Sherlock had not had the honor himself of staying with the Commadore himself, his brother had, and even now that Mycroft remained silent about his time there, the scars hidden beneath his frock coat were hard to ignore.   
  
Mycroft would not speak of his time spent in Moriarty’s brig, not to him or anyone else, even Anthea, who had been his first mate for as long as Sherlock had known Mycroft to be a pirate Captain.  To this day he kept tight lipped and remained stoic when questioned, even by the closest of people.  Even his brother, who probably understood him better than anyone else in the entirety of the world -and since their parent’s tragic deaths- could not get him to speak of whatever he had endured.  Sherlock believed the horrors were great, far more than just simple physical torture, because his brother was strong and nearly-unshakable in character, and to do so would mean someone had damn near moved the Earth and The Heavens in order to get to him.    
  
Mycroft had gone to Bombay for some sort of Court deal, the letter with his instructions being received as usual, the stamp of the Pirates’ Court sealed in blood red wax and hand delivered by a pirate lackey from one of the main ships.  They’d told him to sail to Bombay, which was a heavily guarded Naval Port even then, for some undisclosed meeting to straighten out the details of a little misunderstanding.  Upon arrival, Mycroft and his crew had been ambushed by Moriarty and his men, all well armed and trained in the advantage points they’d been placed in.  They’d killed most of the crew his brother had taken with him to the meeting, only saving a few higher ranked officers for questioning and leverage during Mycroft’s own torture, which had been done personally by Moriarty’s hands.    
  
The scars on Mycroft’s back and chest had shown just how adept Moriarty was to the skills of persuasion.    
  
A few weeks later the massive port had been attacked by an unknown number of war-faring pirate ships, who pillaged and raided the place as a cover for Mycroft’s rescue, their flags flown proudly from the start of the assault.  He’d never said by name who had arranged the daring escape, but Sherlock had a feeling he knew exactly who had arranged for such a grand scale siege.  (It was no secret to him that Mycroft and the Pirate King were on more than friendly speaking terms, though even he’d never go so far as to say that out loud to anyone, especially neither of the two elder men.)  And he was more than grateful that his brother had not been murdered via horrendous torture, because as much as they did not agree eye to eye or get along, he never wished his flesh and blood dead.  Plus it would be a nuisance to take over Mycroft’s place on the Court, which was what would have happened in the case of the influential man’s death.    
  
When Mycroft had been returned to those of his own ship’s care, and had begun regaining his health somewhat, he had explained to those other Captains in the court about his receiving of the official summons, and the instructions on what port to go to and what to do upon arrival.  It was revealed that the Court had sent no such letter and that whoever had sent it, had set Mycroft up specifically to be captured, tortured, and eventually hanged for being a deserter of the British Royal Navy and a high ranking Pirate of the Court. They had wanted him dead, but first they had wanted everything that he knew.  After that, all communication between Court Captain’s had been restricted on a need to know basis and put under hush-hush, so that no further false orders would be delivered or carried out.    
  
So far it had worked, but Mycroft had never been the same.    
  
And neither had Sherlock, truly.    
  
The horrific torture of your elder sibling, someone Sherlock had always looked upon as being perfect when he had been younger, idolizing his brother in a way only the younger sibling can, had hardened him to life at sea.  No longer was it the desired escape of fanciful dash about in the seas, as it had been in his youthful fantasies.  Now it only held untold dangers, horrors of man kind who had at their command many devices that could maim and kill others.  It had shown Sherlock just how horrifying the world could be when it turned on those inhabiting it, and forever jaded him to what little beauty he continued to consistently find.  Until John, of course, because John was changing everything he’d come to know as truth and was changing the world view he’d come to hold onto for so long now.    
  
Which was why he was so startled to see Sebastian Moran eyeing him up from the bar like a large cat does to an injured mouse.  He’d only realized he’d stopped when Moran smirked at him in that truly infuriating way that he did, one eyebrow raised in silent challenge, the brush of others against his side the only reminder that he couldn’t outright shoot the man here and now.  Not that he had his pistol on him of course, but that would hardly let that stop him.  Because it wasn’t just a rumor, this man was the Commanding officer on The Westwood, and wherever he was, Moriarty was sure to be waiting patiently in the shadows.  They’d found them at last, tucked away on shore and helpless to flee their tender care, their ship rendered as useless as its Captain felt in those few moments.    
  
Sherlock couldn’t afford to show any hesitation when dealing with this man.  He was like a shark, being able to smell blood in the water and coming to the weak for its next meal.    He would need to be swift and precise, his words strong and unyielding when it came time to deliver them.  He would have to find the strength to look death in the face and laugh...  Sherlock was terrified, though he hid it well.    
  
“Moran, what do you want?”  His tone was icy, the familiar feeling of detachment taking over Sherlock’s body, his beautiful mind being put to the problem of solving whatever it was that Moriarty could throw at him.  “Because I doubt this is a social call.”    
  
The man laughed, drinking the last of his ale in one fell swoop, the clink of the metal stein tinkling in the room as he set it back onto the bar top, lost to the countless other similar sounds.  The grin that had been plastered there for the past few minutes steadily grew into a full-out leer, one that met Sherlock’s own bravado head on.    
  
“The Commadore sends his regards, Captain.”  Moran stated slowly, rolling out the title as if it were a disgrace.  To him it probably was.  “And would like me to inform you that he expects you to be on time for your next engagement.  After all, you’ll be hanging soon enough, if he has his way, but it won’t be from any Executioner’s gallows.”    
  
“Oh, should I see this as a threat?” Sherlock said, frowning slightly as he backed up a step, the patrons nearby tensing slightly at the words spoken by the unknown man.  “I think you forget where you are, Moran.  And though I’m quite well aware of your Captain’s obsession with me and my ship, he’ll have to try harder than measly scare tactics if he wants my attention.  It is so precious, after all.”    
  
Moran’s smirk shifted in almost the blink of an eye, the faint humor replaced with rapidly growing rage, the stein in his hand gripped tightly about the handle.  So the rumors about Moran’s anger issues were true, after all, Sherlock thought faintly before smirking his own trademark grin.  Here he had the upper-hand in the situation, and Moran knew it.    
  
“Do toddle off now, Moran.  Go back to your master and tell him his challenge has been accepted like the good little dog that you are.”  Sherlock grinned as Dimmock set a pint down for him on the bar, eying Moran wearily before leaving again.  “I’ll be waiting.”    
  
Moran slammed his tankard down on the heavy wooden bar top for a final time, the side noticeably denting at the force of the blow.  The anger the Commander was so known for was playing to Sherlock’s advantage here, and would continue to do so, even after the little man left.  Impatience was sometimes worth its weight in gold, something Sherlock’s father had always taught to him and Mycroft alike.  Moriarty and Moran didn’t have the patience to follow them on a merry chase, instead choosing to call them out and see if they came running out to play.  It was like a merry game of tag, except that Sherlock -now it- had no intention of seeking the other players out just yet.    
  
Sherlock would call Moriarty’s bluff with one of his own.    
  
“Lestrade, prepare to leave port.”  Sherlock had called to the man down the bar, one he’d known had been listening to the little conversation intensely, disguising the movements in the cup of rum before him.  “It seems as if the Game is afoot.  And we’re It.”    
  
And this Game, this Game would be glorious.


	8. Across The Western Ocean

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> I really appreciate that you all are reading and enjoying the story. Thank you for all the reviews as well, I love getting them, even the anon ones. Thank you, thank you, thank you!

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> The Shivering Sands is an actual place, a British Naval Base constructed during WWII that is essentially several large, inter-connecting buildings on stilts in the middle of the ocean. They were abandoned afterwards, but left to stand, and were used as by a pirate radio station later. As far as I know, they’re still standing, though they’re located off the coast of England, not in the Caribbean Sea. I just...used the name and idea, while moving them quite a bit.

They snuck out of Tortuga in the dead of night, Moran long since gone from the port, the local dockies seeing him off in a small long boat some hours earlier.  Sherlock had made sure that the men who’d tailed him back to his boat had been thorough and well paid off, which in turn ensured their dedication and diligence.  They’d made sure he’d actually left and didn’t simply circle back around to dock or Sherlock’s ship, and when they were certain he was long gone, had set up post to make sure he just didn’t wait them out before reporting back with the direction he was traveling in.    
  
Luckily for the Crew of The Deduction and her Captain, Moran had been headed in the direction of a less known cove that was where Moriarty most certainly had to be hiding out, awaiting their move.  There was no port on the entirety of Tortuga that would allow a British Royal Navy warship into its ports, and so he’d most certainly have been forced to drop anchor remotely and then paddle into the populated areas.  And as laughable as that idea was, it was still unnerving to know that somewhere very close, The Westwood lay in wait for them to depart. Biding its time to spring out and take them for all they were worth.  Biding its time to spring out of the scenery and take them for all they were worth.  The thought alone caused more panic in Sherlock than he’d felt since his brother had gone missing.    
  
Combine that with the fact that he’d need to surely inform John where they were headed and why, not only to lie low for the duration of the journey, he couldn’t come out whenever he chose, and you’d have the state Sherlock’s inner mentality was taking on.  Not that you’d be able to tell it from his cool exterior, of course.  No, Sherlock was everything but emotionally expressive, especially in times like this.  He thrived in stressful situations, his immense intellect flourishing and blossoming under adversity and the tension caused by straining conflict.  Especially when dealing with the mad man James Moriarty.    
  
He’d need to get the meeting with John done as soon as they were good and free of port then, so he didn’t risk the Merman’s safety.    
  
“Headings, Captain?”  Lestrade had asked him as they’d walked together back to port, the rest of the crew quickly filling in their stations around them.  No one had drunk much, so there was no fear of human errors while sailing out, and for that Sherlock was glad.  One less problem to deal with in the long run. “I need to know where you wish to sail.”    
  
“The Shivering Sands.” Sherlock replied in a clipped manner as they strode down the dock together, over-seeing the last bit of supplies and rigging as they made their way on and off his ship.  “We’re headed West, far West.  We need to go into hiding for a while, and I know no better place than those isles.  Not only are they secure, they’re also dangerous to navigate unless you know exactly what you’re doing.  I’m counting on Moriarty not knowing them like I or my brother do.”    
  
“Aye, Captain.  I just wonder why you would pick such a...dangerous route for hiding.  You know, it requires a run past several British Strongholds and what with being chased by Commadore Moriarty and all, I just think it is a bit, well, daft, Sir.” Lestrade hedged cautiously, knowing full well how Moriarty’s name affected his Captain, and being on edge already would certainly not go over well.  “Why not simply go back to Baker Island?”    
  
“Too obvious.  If Moriarty has been watching our movements as well as I know he probably has, he’ll be expecting us to go back to Baker Island, or any other number of similar places near there.”  Sherlock explained patiently, something as rare as a blue moon over the ocean. His own eyes were locked with the moonlit horizon. “No, we need to throw him off our trail and fast.  I want to summon John before too long passes, and it has been nearly a week now.  I do not wish to leave him adrift, as it were.”  
  
Lestrade chuckled a bit, the sound strained into the gently sea breeze.  If anyone had asked about Sherlock Holmes‘ social skills a few months prior, even Lestrade who’d known him for years now, would have told you that he had practically none. Of course he cared for his crew, he wasn’t a heartless bastard like some accused him of being, but he’d always been...inept in a way.  Lacking, in unsure terms, that single spark that made all humans crave other social connections or interaction.   But now only months after meeting John, look at him go!  The Merman -who they all had thought was evil incarnate at first- had turned out to be exactly what Sherlock needed to remedy his broken soul.    
  
And Lestrade was sure it had been broken.    
  
He wasn’t sure when it had happened, exactly, seeing as how Sherlock had been that way when they’d first met. Lestrade hadn’t been with Sherlock since the beginning, since his break with England like Molly or Mike had been, and they swore up and down that he hadn’t always been so ice cold. Brisk, being a lighter term,  his mannerisms tight and controlled, tone dismissing and cutting, an icy barrier between himself and the world.  Sherlock had been cut-off from the rest of life, it had seemed, and was one of the many reasons Gregory Lestrade had found himself tailing after the man into the midst of danger.  Not long after Sherlock had asked him to be his first mate, and as they say, it was all history now.    
  
Though it was probably all thanks to John, if he had to guess.  And a part of him, a deep seated part that desired to be recognized by Sherlock for how intelligent or brave Lestrade really was, was jealous to just the tiniest degree of John and his unnatural ways.  But the rest of him -the majority of him really- all of which was dedicated to the ship and her enigmatic Captain, knew that nothing could have been better for the man’s wounded soul.  Because unlike the crew or Sherlock or anyone Sherlock had ever known, except for maybe an infant, John was innocent and completely pure of heart, untainted by human horrors...  
  
Well, for the most part anyways.  And even though John had been shot, though by who they still didn’t know, he had still approached Sherlock and the rest of the crew without overt fear or hostility.  He’d saved Sherlock from drowning, for Pete’s sake, and had done so out of the goodness of his soul.  Sherlock didn’t believe in souls, so he’d told Lestrade that imaging John having one was rubbish, but Lestrade firmly believed in them and would continue to do so until proved wrong.  John had a beautiful soul, one that reached out to others and healed them.  He’d healed Sherlock, after all, of that Lestrade had no doubt.    
  
“Aye, Captain.  But may I suggest waiting till we’re underway?  I know John can keep up with us, which he’s clearly been doing, even at the fastest of sailing.  He can probably swim to the ship while it is in motion with ease.”  He could suggest the plan, Greg thought tightly.  It couldn’t hurt.  “But we cannot stop if we’re being followed.  It would open us up to such attacks that I would fear for the lives of the crew and their Captain.”    
  
“Hm, perhaps you are right, Lestrade.  I will default to your better judgement in these things.”  The Captain called over his shoulder as the boarded the ship, the lines being released deftly as they made their way back out to sea.  “After all, that is why you are my First Mate.”  
  
“Of course, Captain.”  Lestrade replied with a smile, hands busy toying with the compass that rested at his hip.  “Best keep me working or I’ll end up as useless as one of Mrs. Hudson’s cabbages!”    
  
Sherlock smirked back, his bootheels clicking on the deck as he spun around, making his way up the stairs towards the helm and whoever was manning the station once they’d passed out of the bay and back into open ocean.  If he meant to relay orders for their destination, he would have done so through Lestrade, but this...this was a different type of madness.  Captain Holmes was planning on navigating the ship himself.  He meant to take the helm himself and sail them all to the brink of madness.   
  
After all, he had said the way to The Shivering Sands were treacherous.    
  
Lestrade had nothing but utter faith in his Captain.


	9. Fire Down Below

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I think I may have gotten Commandant confused with Commodore. If I did, will someone please tell me so that I can fix it? I’m looking at British Officer Ranks and I see Commodore, but I look up Commandant and I see something similar. (It says it is equal or the same as Commodore.) If they’re interchangeable: great, if not: I need to fix it. 
> 
> EDIT: The lovely Bonfoi -who is going back through with me to edit and correct- has decided Commodore is better. 
> 
> Also, this may seem like the plot develops really, really quick, but it isn’t really. In reality, the last chapter and this chapter happens over the course of four or five days, while previous chapters have occurred during months and months worth of time. So while this seems like it somewhat came out of nowhere, in reality it has been brewing for a long time in Sherlock’s POV.

As The Science of Deduction made her way through the breaking waves that harold the breaking waves that herold the onset of a particularly nasty storm, Captain Holmes -still at the helm like some strange specter- had to decide just what his plans for his crew were in the event of their capture.  Of course he planned to call upon John as soon as he could, not only to warn of the dangers that would come, but also to help protect his faithful crew from the Hellish months that were sure to come if they weren’t caught within the next few days.  They would need all the distraction and happiness that he could afford them, and if John was how they found it, then he would not bar them that.  He loved them, in his own unique way, not really having the emotion after so long without it, but wishing the best for them regardless.  He would let no harm befall them if he could stop it.  
  
Which explained why they were pushing on harder than ever, trying to reach the Shivering Sands before Moriarty caught up with them.  If he could just get into the passage toward the cliffs and the sandbars, then Moriarty’s pursuit would surely be slowed, and they could break away from them long enough to hide.  The unfamiliarity of the terrain and ocean floor would surely be his advantage there.  If things continued how they were, however, Moriarty’s ship (which had been spotted sometime in the night by one of the night watchmen) was estimated to overtake them within the next few days.  With a storm brewing darkly on their intended horizon, the odds were increasingly not in their favor.  Sherlock would try to outrun God himself if it meant getting them out of Moriarty’s path.    
  
Lestrade had been insistent that he rest at some point, but Sherlock would just wave off his concern and continue on his way, his pipe almost always at hand now, the rich smoke clinging to him as he smoked.  He’d always had a thing for tobacco, but lately he’d been consuming it at a more rapid rate, the past two days and nights no exception.  Lestrade, being his nosy, overly concerned self, had noticed and made appropriate plans with Mrs. Hudson for a suitable substitute, which had failed when Captain Holmes saw through the flimsy plan to call him away from the Helm and instead to John.  Sherlock had refused, just as he was refusing to sleep now. Unfortunately, the madness of being chased started to set in, and the tempting need to call John was not helping.    
  
When the storm hit he’d been forced to reduce their speed, their sails being brought in for fear of them ripping or being snapped off in the high wind.  Apparently Mother Nature and Calypso were in agreement that they were to be punished, because despite their best efforts, one of the smaller riggings holding a main sail upright was cconsiderably damaged in the gale.  With their current tools and the need to not stop, they were unable to do more than patch it up and pray that it held long enough for them to outrun their tormentors.  Once the storm lifted and they’d righted themselves enough to continue their journey, they’d lost the good part of a day to delays, the rigging only serving to hinder their swiftness.  At this rate, the British Naval vessel would be on them the next morning...  
  
He’d have no time to caution John.    
  
“Press on! We have to make it to the Shivering Sands, Lestrade!” Sherlock pressed his crew as much as he could, working them near to exhaustion, but no one complained.  They knew what was coming if they could not make it.  “We need to become faster in the water!  Throw anything unnecessary overboard and see what can be done for the sail lines!”    
  
But not even that helped.    
  
On the third day from Tortuga, the morning sun only having barely touched the sky with its wafting pink tendrils, and The Westwood had begun to fire upon their ship as they approached from behind.  It was only a few warning shots, ones that demanded they halt their movements and prepare for a quick and utter takeover, and they did their job. Sherlock had conceded and relented, knowing the safety of his crew was paramount, and told his men that no matter what they did, they couldn't outrun the large and much faster ship. They were to abide by the demands of the Naval vessel and do as they were told upon surrender.    
  
The call that they were to be broadsided and then boarded didn’t come long after The Westwood made her first starboard pass, the scarlet uniforms of the marines stark against the wood of the British Royal ship and pastel lit sky.  It was such a stark contrast to Sherlock’s own mismatched crew.  His men and women were dressed randomly, their clothing not a uniform, but a piece of their lives, whereas the men aboard the other ship were constantly in uniform, lives dedicated to serve King and Crown through life and death.  Deep down, Captain Holmes knew his crew was more loyal, and braver than a thousand cadets or marines combined.    
  
Once The Westwood had tied itself to The Science of Deduction, railing ropes and planks tied and put into place for boarding, the infamous crew started to spill over onto the smaller ship’s decks.  Marines and officers armed with pistols, muskets tipped with bayonets, and rapiers at their hips swarmed onto the upper deck, taking men and women alike and rounding them up into groups.  Lestrade was roughly shoved away from his Captain, iron manacles snapped to his wrists and feet before he was forced to kneel on the deck while the rest of the crew was treated in much the same manner.  The medics were split from one another, and the wives from their husbands, everyone in panic.    
  
Only Captain Holmes was left without irons, though he was roughly grabbed, his hands bound behind his back with ropes instead, and forced to stand at the side of the ship while two strikingly familiar figure prepared to come aboard.    
  
The man in the lead was somewhat shorter than most, his eye line barely coming to Sherlock’s chin, the short, dark head of hair barely rising to his own line of sight.  His body was slim, but not scrawny, the elaborate coat and affects meticulously kept neat and tidy where they hung elegantly off his frame.  The coat and clothing were specially made for him, that much was certain, the rich fabrics and the brilliant blue color at odds with the muted ones the officers wore. Buttons gleamed brightly in the early morning light and the cravat a fine festoon of ruffles and lacwe. Even the plumed hat that covered the meticulously formed short wig was set at the precise angle on the man’s head, everything about him screaming refined and vicious danger.    
  
It made Sherlock sick to see him.    
  
Commodore James Moriarty...  
  
He was flanked by his second in command, Commander Moran, who was dressed similar to his Captain, though with much less ornamentation on his coat and hat, his dark hair slicked back as was fashion.  He was more reserved in the flagrant outfit category, but none the less finely dressed or fitted.  And his own sneer mocked those his underlings held captive, the smiling visage of the Devil embodied in Commodoret Moriarty a sharp contrast as he gave out his orders and then hopped the planking to come aboard.  He said nothing to Sherlock or the crew first before he started about his business, the extra men riffling through the entirety of the ship, only the Captain’s quarters untouched.    
  
They had been ordered to leave them for Moriarty himself.    
  
“Did you miss me?” Came the sickeningly sweet tone that Sherlock so detested, fingers caressing his cheek as he walked by quickly.  “I missed you and all the fun we have together.”  
  
Sherlock spit at him.      
  
The pompous Commodore did nothing but smirk as he continued to walk the length of the deck, receiving reports from his crew before he started for Sherlock’s cabin himself.  Bits and pieces of his life being were steadily being put on display, the manic man apparently searching for something as he made his way quickly through what few possessions Sherlock deemed important.  (Both his crew and he were into the search, ignoring the captured pirates in favor of whatever they were looking for.)  But when Moriarty didn't find it, he stood and stared about the smaller ship with a frown before his eyes suddenly lit up and his mouth turned into the toothy grin of a predator.  Orders were given to have all his crew brought on deck, bound and surrounded of course, before he was pulled to the center of the deck himself, Moran in his wake.  He hadn’t a clue why they were all being herded to the main area like that but he had a sinking feeling he would find out soon enough.    
  
When they’d reached the area just before the central mast, the two men holding him tightly had shoved him forwards, his bound hands still tied tightly behind him.  Sherlock almost fell to his knees, but quickly righted himself before turning to face Moran once more. The man was removing his hat, frock coat, and cravat, his grin matching to his Captain’s in certain insanity and malevolence, and it wasn’t hard to guess what exactly Moriarty and Moran had planned for him.    
  
The beating wasn’t swift, but it was pain-filled.    
  
Once Moran had had his fill of Sherlock’s choked gasps, broken breathing, and pummeled flesh, he backed off and allowed Moriarty to come in an inspect his careful work.  Fingers jammed into tender spots, and pinched joints sore from the beating. The bindings were still in place, with large bruises and cuts blooming where he’d been struck or struck the deck and rigging. It seemed to please the Commandant greatly, because he just giggled like a child and continued his inspection. He then proceeded to have Commander Moran half-strip Sherlock, taking almost everything from him but the tattered remains of his shirt, his trousers, and the boots he was wearing.  The small eye-glass and his shell whistle were easily yanked free and handed over to the waiting Commodore, who was grinning from ear to ear, looking much like the cat who’d gotten the canary.    
  
“How delightful!” Moriarty’s grin was that of a child’s, one who had just received a new toy to play with.  It was horribly twisted in the deep seated root to harm, to give pain instead of just playing.  “Tell me, what does this little whistle do, Sherlock? Something fun, surely, or you wouldn’t be struggling so much in order to get it back.  What will happen when I give it attention like you’ve just been given?”    
  
Sherlock struggled even more at the torturous words. Moran and the nameless crewmen held him down, their fingers digging in more deeply as they once more secured him beneath their mangy hands.  It hurt, the ropes at his wrists biting tightly into the tender skin, the wounds and bruises from the beating stinging profusely, but it would be worth the pain if he could spare John.  Moriarty wanted to hurt him, after all, and what better way to do it then by killing or hurting the Merman whom he’d grown to adore?    
  
He would not give Moriarty that satisfaction.    
  
Growling in frustration, he tried again and again to wrench himself free of the iron-tight grips, but Moran only laughed at him and gripped his hair tighter, forcing him to look Moriarty in the eyes.  The much shorter man merely smirked as he toyed with the shell gently, as if it held the secrets to the future.  Perhaps it did hold the key to the secrets of Moriarty’s surely heinous plan, and it was looking more and more like Sherlock would be able to do nothing when the time came.  He could only hope that John would recognize that it was not him producing the tones and stay far, far away from the ship.    
  
“Oh, come on now!  Don’t be like that, Sherlock!”  Moriarty took a few steps closer, his boots clacking merrily on the deck as he almost danced about, his energetic mood clearly on display.  “You can’t fool me with your silence.  This isn’t the first time I’ve seen a Mermaid’s Clutch.”    
  
The hushed silence that overtook the ship at that statement was almost instant, every bit of the crew’s attention being torn from their bound Captain to the madman that had the Clutch.  Moriarty had always been dangerous, but now he was a raving lunatic that had been given a loaded pistol.  One that was poised at everyone and anyone and ready to go off at any second.    
  
“You see, most sailors and other seafaring folk think that a Clutch is a mass of eggs or seaweed or clumps of debris afloat in the surf, strange things left behind by the Mermaids. But it’s not, not at all.”  He swung the whistle by its strap, catching it as it made its third revolution about his hand, the snapping sound of his hand closing on it extremely loud in the harsh silence.  “A Mermaid’s Clutch is this dear little whistle given to those on land who hold their hearts, their trust.  It is what they use to communicate since they either can’t fully learn human languages or don’t care too, but either way, it is how they talk with us.  But you knew that, didn’t you Sherlock?”  
  
Sherlock hadn’t known, not really.  Not until now.    
  
“You’ve known for practically ages, ever since your own funny fish gave its Clutch to you.  Did you give it your heart in return for its own?  It has given you its heart, Sherlock, without a doubt, and I’m going to burn yours out of you eventually.  Though not before you watch as I kill and devour your fish and sink your ship into oblivion.  Only then will my love for you be complete.”    
  
“If you know so much, then why do you constantly ask such pointless questions?”  Came Holmes’ snotty reply, his teeth grit against the pain in his scalp and arms, his blue eyes blazing as he starred Moriarty down from his kneeling position on deck, blood dripping down from the cut above his eye. “If you already knew I had a Mermaid’s Clutch, why did you spend the time to talk about it at length instead of torturing and maiming me like you planned?  Why not just summon the creature and be done with it?”    
  
“Because I’m not going to summon it, Sherlock Holmes...” Moriarty replied, teeth flashing in a truly predatory smile.  “You are.”     
  
If it were physically possible for Sherlock to become paler than he already was, he was positive he would have turned three shades of white and made even the palest of pearls, whiter than freshly starched shirts or seafoam, truly jealous.  And if he hadn’t been restrained upright, his hair held tight by Moran and his arms still bound down and flexed backwards by the two burly men at the Commander’s side, he just might have fallen over and stayed down.  But it wasn’t panic that was making him go so rigid, no, it was the painful burning sensation at the corners of his eyes and the sudden and rather dramatic tightening of his chest that made him want to curl into a ball and be left alone.  He knew the sensation for what it was, something he hadn’t felt since watching his parents die aboard their last journey at sea.    
  
Emotional pain, truly terrible and awe-inspiring at the most hated of moments, hadn’t touched him like this in such a very long time. It was worse than the physical pain he was currently enduring, and it burned hotter than even the brightest of molten metals.  For once, Sherlock found himself praying that his brother Mycroft discovered their plight before he would be forced to call John from the sea.  That he’d come and save them before he would be forced to call his best friend, practically his family now, to the surface of the water and what John would think was a safe place.    
  
To his death...  
  
Sherlock’s heart fractured a bit more under the turmoil his emotions now faced.    
  
“You will call it, Captain Holmes, or I will shoot one of your crew members for each time you refuse me.”  The Commandant sneered down at him, expressive face jumping from happy to deadly in mere seconds.  “And I will not make it quick.  They will linger in agony for hours before they finally die.  Gut wounds do take so long to finally end a life, wouldn’t you agree?”  
  
Sherlock’s mind began to race.  
  
“Perhaps we’ll start with the little rat who tried to bite me earlier, Sir?”  Moran said from his spot behind Sherlock, emphasizing his words with sharp tugs to his scalp.  “That little whelp won’t live past his twelfth year anyways, not with a scrawny body like that.”    
  
“No, not Tim!” Sherlock snarled suddenly, all the emotions and hatred he was trying to keep locked into place and calm beneath the surface boiling over at such an ugly comment.  “He had done nothing to deserve that!  He’s but a child!”    
  
“He’s joined your little crew, Sherlock. And that’s enough to see him hung when we reach Port Royal, if the King doesn’t request he be brought back to England first before his death,” Moriarty sing-songed as he motioned for the little boy to be dragged forward.  “And I’m not sure which is worse, brig conditions for months on a trip back to England were he knows he’ll be hung or a few hours of suffering before he finally is put out of his misery.  What do you think?”    
  
Moran cuffing him from behind was enough to deter any sort of hot argument Sherlock would have made on Tiny Tim’s behalf, his head snapping forwards roughly as the struggling boy was dragged across the deck.  Blood was pouring into his left eye now, the constant flow of crimson blocking some of his vision.  The Commandant had drawn his pistol already and was inspecting it with the air of faint indifference, as if he didn’t care he was about to shoot a boy of no more than ten for deeds he hadn’t committed.  And he probably had no heart with which to care, the blackened spot in his chest long since rung out of any sort of genuine human emotion.    
  
“You know how I killed my commanding officer, Captain Powers, to gain my position in the British Royal Navy, Sherlock.  How I framed you for being the one to kill Powers all those years ago back in England.”  Moriarty mockingly waved his hand at Tim’s direction.  “I have no problem with shooting a mangy child now.”    
  
Sherlock knew the words were spoken in truth, always having known deep within himself that James Moriarty -then a lowly Irish Cabin Boy- had framed him for the death of Carl Powers, a long time friend to the Holmes Family.  The jovial Captain had always been quick to take in those less fortunate, which is how he’d acquired Jim’s services in the first place, having saved him from a godless and starving homestead in Ireland during his travels there.  The young boy had been very quiet, but very smart, and was only a few years younger than Sherlock was, despite how small he was.    
  
He remembered how Jim envied his place as a British scientist, a man of good reputation and standing in the eyes of the Crown. Ever since Captain Powers had first introduced them, Sherlock had seen the wanting in Moriarty’s eyes. They had been so much alike back then, and in reality, it was why Jim’s frame had held up so well under scrutiny.  Carl’s dismembered body being found within his laboratory had only been the start, all the evidence being stacked against him little by little, and no one to believe that such a cold and calculating man -one who’d witnessed his parent’s own deaths- could not have done such a horrendous crime.    
  
It was what had turned him to a life of piracy to begin with.    
  
“You Bastard...” Sherlock hissed out once his wits had reassembled themselves once more, his head throbbing, his wrists burning, his body crying as much as his breaking heart was singing.  “I will kill you for this.  I will watch you fall from your false sense of grace, James Moriarty, like the demon you are!  And I will see you die!”    
  
“Chose, Sherlock!” Jim cocked the gun, the aim true at the boy standing off to the side, held tightly by his arms at either side of him, nowhere to run while he ignored the threats thrown at him from Sherlock.  “The Mermaid or the boy?  Which one is more important to you?”    
  
Tiny Tim’s subtle sobbing...

  
The Ocean’s lulling roar...  
  
Sherlock knew that those uttered words would condemn him, regardless of which route he chose.  But he could hardly let Moriarty shoot the tiny boy who Sherlock had grown to care for, not while he could do something to stop it.  Realistically John had the better chance at escape, or he might simply not come when called...but he knew that John not coming would never happen.  John would come whenever Sherlock called, regardless of where or when the call took place.  It was what made John so naive, so innocent and loyal, so utterly John.    
  
Oh god, forgive him.    
  
“I chose the Clutch.”  

 


	10. Asleep In The Deep

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> You can find the Magnifier Necklace that I imagine Sherlock wears constantly on Amazon, an amazing little discovery I made when I went to purchase some books the other day. I don’t know how Amazon knows that I would want one, seeing as how I’ve looked at nothing remotely similar. My Amazon account reads my Fan Fiction, it is the only explanation.

The whistle always produced a sharp, high pitched noise when Sherlock blew into it at first, the welcomeIt had to be shrill to be able to penetrate the ocean depths, of course, to reach John wherever he was swimming.  It had to be able to penetrate the ocean depths of course, to reach John wherever he was swimming at, so of course it was shrill.  Logically Sherlock knew that, but it didn’t make the sound any less irritating to his ears or grating on his heart.  Nor did the response call that John easily produced when he broke the surface of the water some ways out, his blonde head surely bobbing in the surf where he swam.    
  
Of course, Sherlock couldn’t see him from his face-down position on the deck; the only things in his line of sight were the grain of the deck and part of his own shirt collar capped by a tuft of his dark curls, as well as a lot of boots from the others on the ship.  (And Moran’s fingers that had wrapped themselves both in his shirt and the hair at the nape of his neck, the long digits digging in slight where they found purchase.) But he could imagine the slight confusion John would show at not seeing him -or any of the other familiar crew- at the side of the ship waiting, the whistle still in his hands and a smile on his face.  He could imagine clearly the second call that could come just to make sure it was safe.    
  
Sure enough a second, more drawn out trill pierced the morning air, Sherlock’s answering call just as it always was, no hesitancy in it, not while Moriarty still had a gun trained on Tiny Tim.  He couldn’t afford to even hesitate a moment where this matter was concerned, no matter how much he wanted too for John’s sake.  And John would know then that something was wrong, when he couldn’t see Sherlock and the calls were hesitant or incorrectly timed, to shrill or long or any number of other factors.  He would know and would swim off and leave the crew to their deaths. Oh god, why was this forsaken situation so bloody difficult?    
  
“Sir... There’s something in the water.”  One of the men standing near the side of the ship said hesitantly, his eyes following something as it glided towards the ships, his hands suddenly slack on the line he was holding.  “And it is huge.”    
  
Moriarty clapped his hands gleefully, eyes shining with delight as he uncocked his gun and holstered it back at his side, Tiny Tim being dragged back to his spot with the others as the Commodore’s attention shifted.  Sherlock let out a sigh of relief, but before he could give another command with the whistle, it was wrenched from his mouth by Moran.  The assassin-turned-officer smirked, clearly having seen what Sherlock had planned only seconds before, pleased that he’d prevented the great Captain Holmes from pulling the wool over his own captain’s eyes.  If anything, the man was infuriatingly loyal to Moriarty, so much so that he took it upon himself to personally watch over Sherlock, at every passing moment.    
  
He shook his finger in Sherlock's face.    
  
“Ah, ah, ah, Holmes.  I’ll have none of that.” His deft fingers quickly tucked the whistle somewhere into his inner waistcoat, probably in the pocket meant for a pocket watch, and Moran never took his eyes off Sherlock.  “Wouldn’t want you spoiling the surprise too early, now would we?”    
  
Sherlock’s response was a low growl.    
  
“Come now, do be a bit proper about all this,” Moran continued, his eyes meeting with Moriarty’s first before he changed his grip on Sherlock’s hair and began hauling him up out of his kneeling position.  “The Commodore wants you to have a front row seat for all of this, and you know how he gets when he doesn’t get his way.”    
  
“Your insubordinate nature is showing again, Sebastian!” Moriarty called jovially over he shoulder, his own eyes pinned to a moving point within the sea, just as the rest of the crew was.  He seemed unconcerned with the disheartening comment, but perhaps it was normal among the two senior officers, because none of the crew reacted either. “But do continue!  You know how much I enjoy listen to you talk nasty to Sherlock.  It gets me all...flustered.”    
  
Moriarty laughed heartily, the disgust clear on Sebastian Moran's face for only a moment before the familiar smirk quickly took over, the man clearly surprised at the comment.  Sherlock was careful to keep his face controlled, the emotionless mask firmly in place, though even he knew it was starting to fall away in big chunks and his hatred and disgust were bleeding through.  Soon it would leave him bare to the world for all to see his pain and anger, but he would fight it as much as he could.  He had to fight it as hard as he could.  He just had to. John whistled again, louder this time, before some splashing was audible just below the deck rail.     
  
If John was wary of the second, much larger ship tied tight to Sherlock’s own ship, he didn't show it as he approached. To the contrary, he calmly and effortlessly glided through the water towards the two without hesitation, mindful but not overly hesitant upon seeing unfamiliar faces looking down at him.  IIt wasn’t the first time he’d met new people on Captain Holmes’ ship after all. The wayward captain had slowly introduced him to his entire crew, but the lack of recognizable faces was causing unrest in the Merman.  A nagging feeling almost, as if something had gotten caught on his fin and he couldn’t see it to remove it.  But not even that stopped his lazy forwards movements, which is something that everyone in crew on The Westwood was eating up with desperate excitement.    
  
Cries of “It’s a devil in a maiden’s body!” and more than one cry of some variant to the word “Lovely!” and “Beautiful!” was heard murmured around both decks, Sherlock’s crew completely silent and still as the others gaped at what they thought was a Mermaid slowly swimming towards them.  In fact, if Captain Holmes had been looking, he would have noticed a few of the younger crew mates trying to hold back their smirks and snickers at the female descriptions two foreign men were making.  Apparently they thought it was hilarious that the other crew was stupid enough to mistake John, clearly a male of the species, for a female while still in the water.    
  
It wasn’t until John had hauled himself up and over the side to perch on the deck that any of them noticed that “she” had suddenly become a “he” when John faced them fully. His short hair was once more plastered to his stronger facial features and neck, not free-flowing in the gentle movements of the ocean, and presumably they had thought his hair was longer beneath the surface. To Sherlock’s quiet amusement at their flabbergasted expressions, even Moriarty seemed a bit surprised at the discovery, his eyes wide and his eyebrows shooting up under his his plumed hat. He didn’t say anything for the longest time, something which Moran apparently took as a bad sign since he’d stepped away from Sherlock and towards his Captain quickly.  
  
“Commodore?” He asked hesitantly, one eyebrow lifted, but both eyes trained on Moriarty himself.  “Sir, is everything alright?”    
  
“It's a man,” came the hesitant reply, in a tone that Sherlock had never heard come from the Commodore's mouth before. It was oddly terrifying to hear the raspy whisper tinged with disbelief and darkness. “It’s not a Mermaid at all, it's a bloody man!  Why is it not a Mermaid?  Why do you not have a Mermaid?”    
  
“It’s a Merman, Moriarty, because John is male, obviously.  If he were a female, then he would be a Mermaid,” Sherlock replied slowly, as if explaining things to an incredibly dull child, his icy eyes glinting with humor.  “Really, I had thought you would understand the difference between male and female, but seeing as how you only have other men in your company, I can understand the confusion.”    
  
Moran turned and backhanded Sherlock with enough force to cause him to plummet back to the deck at his hate-filled taunt, his upper torso making a ridiculous amount of noise on the wood when he landed.  But it wasn’t the only sound to strike out at the silence that had started to permeate the deck that morning.  Along side of Sherlock’s own skull cracking against the wood, and the sound the actual slap had made when it met his face, a large hiss and slap of something else that was very heavy broke the air with a sharper thunder-like noise.    
  
From his position, it was hard for Sherlock to see what it was that had also hit the deck, because indeed it was the sound of something hefty hitting the flat surface, but he knew without a doubt that it had been a hiss issued from John that had been the other identifiable sound.  A hiss that he knew would bear all the sharpened teeth that John’s misleading pink mouth held, the jagged edges of a predator hidden in a guise that would fool even the most observant of men.  And sure enough, when he had enough power to once more shift himself over to face John and the rest of the obviously concerned crew, John was poised over on his belly, his arms holding him up as he snarled and raged against the lines that were used as halyards.  His dorsal spine was standing ridged, the golden spikes striking in the lazy sun, the arm fins in the same state, his body changing to make himself appear larger.  His great tail was furled out behind him, the appendage usually kept close to his body laid out in a display of hostility, the loud slapping noise coming from where he’d struck the deck with the greater part of his massive furled tail.    
  
Truly, John was a sight to behold in all his animalistic rage and aggression, his nature being brought to the forefront when Sherlock -and by extension his crew and ship- came under threat.  If the normally passive Merman didn’t know he was in danger before, he most certainly knew by now, and he was taking appropriate action in regards to the situation. Moriarty’s men were aiming their pistols, muskets, and all number of sharp implements in his direction, quickly surrounding him as much as they could with the railing at his back.  John just stared at Moriarty in frustration, blue eyes focused on the well-dressed figure that stood only inches from him now, close enough for him to reach out and strike.    
  
Moriarty, apparently having recovered from the shock of John being a male and not the famed female of legends, was happily grinning once more and joining in the fray.  He called his crew off only in the slightest of manner, his lithe body making quick work of the distance between the two, John’s snarling only increasing in pitch, a sharp sound accompanying his snarling rage.  The Commodore hardly looked threatened, though it was probably due to all the men flanking him with weapons, as he approached John slowly, hands up, a horrifying smile painting its way across his features, like some manic lizard.    
  
“Oh, you are beautiful, aren’t you?  Even if you aren’t exactly what I thought you’d be...” He said confidently, as if whatever panic attack he had earlier had never even happened, his voice sugary sweet and as false as a peg leg.  “But it doesn’t really change anything.  No, not when I have something as precious as you.  And you are precious.”    
  
John just starred at Moriarty in frustration, blue eyes trained specifically on the well-dressed figure that stood only inches from him now, close enough for him to reach out and take a good swipe at.  He wasn’t growling so much anymore, the snarling reduced as confusion seemed to rapidly seep in and take its place.  It was a particular look that Sherlock had seen on his face more than once in these past months, the small tilt of his head and the misunderstanding flitting across his face tell-tale signs that he didn’t fully understand what was going on around him, but that he wanted to know.    
  
The deep-throated melody only added to the pain Sherlock was feeling at his betrayal.  
  
It flared more painfully when the Commodore reached out to stroke the top of John’s damp head like he’d done it a thousand times before, the Merman leaning into the strokes minutely after a few long seconds before moving back to stare around him in confusion. His trilling increased in volume until he was practically singing, his tail slapping once, then twice against the deck in irritation and frustrated confusion, tinged with pleasure. Moriarty just grinned down at him as he kept petting the Mer’s hair, holding a laugh at how complacent he’d become all of a sudden once tactile sensations had been granted too him.  John just seemed happy to be touched by someone he assumed knew Sherlock.    
  
“He’s quite the looker, Sherlock, and has quite the voice.  I was jealous before, but now...” Moriarty took a deep breath as he grabbed a tight fistful of John’s hair as suddenly as he had started petting him, practically dragging him further along the deck, even though the much stronger beast was fighting it the whole time. “And strong, oh goodness, he’s strong! So primal, Sherlock, and such a fighter. You always were after the odd ones.”    
  
“They were probably never this lively though, Commodore.” Moran said with a sickening smirk as he came forward with the large net he’d brought along earlier, along with a few other men, to help wrestle the once again snarling and snapping sea creature, claws shredding and slicing at cloth and flesh as they roped him down.  “Or this...fishy.  But don’t worry, I’m sure we can fix that.  The lively part, I mean.”    
  
Moriarty laughed loudly as he stepped back, wiping his hands on a handkerchief that another member of his crew handed him before inspecting the scene before him.  Moran and three of Moriarty's crew were still wrestling with the captured Merman, still trying to get the thrashing John to hold still long enough to restrain him.  It was a swiftly losing battle for John though, no matter how hard he fought, he just wasn’t strong enough to upset four grown men, especially on solid surfaces and not in the water.  His tail was floundering more than it was aiding, and his sensitive gills were being poked and abraded by rough rope and even rougher hands.    
  
The painful crying damn near broke Sherlock’s shriveled heart.    
  
Once free of his obligation to wrestle the now captured Merman, Moran came at him with his rapier, intent clear upon his face.  He was planning on gutting Sherlock in the slowest manner possible, Sherlock could read it so clearly in his deranged and bloodthirsty eyes.  He wanted Captain Holmes dead and gone, but not before he’d suffered, truly suffered, a slow and painful death while John and the entirety of his crew and enemies watched on.  Moran only continued to smile as he raised his weapon high, the blow and intention clear to all.  Not even his screaming crew and crying, bound Merman friend could save him now. After all, he deserved this death.    
  
But one man still held the power.    
  
“No, don’t kill him.  I have a game I want him to play yet, Sebastian.” Moriarty said, the only thing stilling Moran’s armed hand before he could deal the blow to Sherlock.  Sherlock didn’t know whether to be grateful or disgusted with himself as Moriarty knelt down to whisper in his ear. “You have three days, Sherlock, to save your precious pet fish.  If you don’t get to him by dawn on the third day, I will eat him in order to gain immortality.  Because I know the lore of the Merfolk, and by consuming one, I gain their very long lives.”    
  
“You would only gain an unnatural presence to go with your unnatural soul, if you even have one.  Which I doubt.”  Sherlock’s tone was bland and even, he wouldn’t give Jim the satisfaction of letting him know he was scared.  “Your outsides will finally be matching your twisted, rotting insides.  All who come across you will know just how twisted and sick you really are.”    
  
Jim’s smile turned downwards into a frown as he stood back up and walked to the railing along which the plank connecting the two ships met, his eyes ablaze with hatred.  John was being held tightly at his side by the three obedient crewmen, his head whipping frantically as Moriarty reached for another tight fistful of his hair and necklaces, his eyes still boring into Sherlock’s own.  The Merman gave another shrill cry as Moriarty pulled so that his startled, turmoil-filled blue eyes met Sherlock’s own icy ones.  The pain Captain Holmes could see was enough to stop any other nasty retorts from making their way past his lips.    
  
“Put the creature in the hold, along with the rest of the crew.  Leave Captain Holmes here tied to the mast in both chains and ropes.”  Moriarty commanded, stroking the snarling Merman’s face through the net once he’d gotten a good grip, their eye contact breaking.  John was crying and snarling with enough rage to distort his beautiful features, but that didn’t seem to concern the Commodore at all.  “And then sink the ship.”


	11. Round The Corner

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Benedict Cumberbatch is 35 years old, so I’m keeping Sherlock at that age range, though not specifically saying 35 because most of the time those birth dates were lost or changed in accordance with baptismal dates or other religious practices. Martin Freeman is 39 or 40, I believe, but John the Merman has been around much longer than that, since in this story Merfolk live a ridiculously long time. 
> 
> Link for the Pirate Poem used in this chapter:  
> http:// tibia. wikia. com/ wiki/ Old_Pirate_Poem

So this was how it would end, truly with a bang...  
  
Sherlock didn’t even so much as blink twice when the two remaining crewmen hefted him up and over to the mast, ropes and a length of chain securing him in seconds while he watched a majority of his crew being dragged off.  The crushing weight was no match for his leaden heart, and no amount of rope burn or cannon fire could compete with the feeling that he’d betrayed and essentially killed his entire crew, as well as John, in one blow.  Especially John.  The Merman was an innocent, and he’d handed him over to the most hate-filled being in existence.  Sherlock would have rather cut off his own ear than do it again.    
  
But there was no taking it back now.    
  
And he thought that perhaps death by cannon fire or drowning was a just punishment.  
  
The two midshipmen finished tying off the ropes and checking the chains.  They stood around him and then stepped back, inspecting their work efficiently,  before making their way back across the plank left between the two ships.  Once safely back aboard their ship, the plank was pulled away, and The Science of Deduction was once again separate from The Westwood. Swiftly the larger ship began to pull away, Moriarty standing on deck, waving at Sherlock the entire time. The larger ship pulled far enough away to swing wide and circle back around, the starboard guns on full display as they came into range.    
  
This was it, any moment now the larger ship would fully come into range and the long guns would rain judgement and Hellfire upon him and his ship.  Then it would only take a matter of minutes before his ship sank and he plunged into the ocean’s depths, if he wasn’t already dead from the original assault.  Now that was a pleasant thought...he could either die as collateral damage or by drowning, neither of which was a very pleasant death, or very honorable, as if that mattered.    
  
Captain Holmes’ dying wish was that he’d never run from England in the first place.  If he’d just stayed and accepted the charge of murder, to later be hung in the town square,  the then freshly knighted Captain Moriarty presiding, then none of this would ever have happened.  He would not have endangered his crew, some of whom he’d known better in the past few years than anyone in the many that made up the beginning of his life, and he would never have met John.  He would never have tainted the golden innocence that should light up the world indefinitely, but now would be snuffed out long before its time.  Moriarty would kill and claim John’s life as his own, and when that happened, Sherlock could only be partially thankful he’d be dead instead of forced to live with his decisions.    
  
“Set the sails to the carved tree, the head of a dragon South shall it be, thirty-four feet in the line to the West, the next one goes under arrest...” Sherlock half-sang, half-recited out loud, his voice carrying slightly on the wind.  “The master’s secret must be revealed, to open the paths that once were sealed.”    
  
The first shot was so impossibly loud that Sherlock was certain the ringing he heard was just his mental alarm bells going off as the main mast splintered above him and began to sway. The second shot only confirmed that The Westwood was so close to his ship that the actual sound of the shot was ripping at the air around them, producing a shrill, biting, whistling sound. When it impacted, there was the crack of a lower side, then several more as the cannons all fired at once, mostly at the lower decks. The other masts weren't targeted as of yet, though once the jarring rupture of the ship’s hull bucked the whole floating mess, the foremast splintered and snapped, cracking before toppling down and taking out another of the lesser drive masts and the bowsprit with it. The fabric that had made up his mighty sails fluttered around the flying debris in large swatches of white, a gentle motion where the breaking of wood and metal was anything but.    
  
The whole sight was impossibly beautiful in a way, really, the sheer amount of chaos dancing finely with travesty and agony until they swirled into one another so infinitely close that Sherlock couldn’t tell them apart anymore.  Couple that with the odd pieces of beauty that should not be found in destruction such as this and Sherlock was fairly impressed that the way Fate had chosen for him to die.  He rarely found such beauty in mundane, normal things anymore, the world having become jaded long before he could remember properly.  It hadn't been until recently that he’d begun seeing the beauty in the little things around him, their own brilliance only being presented by reflected rays off of John’s shining visage.    
  
John had changed things for him, truly changed things, and had started creating a man out of the shell he had been for the past 23 some odd years through influence the Merman couldn’t possibly know he had.  The subtle friendship that had steadily been growing between the two of them these past months had also done wonders to strengthen the other relationships he’d already been engaging in.  His companionship with Lestrade for one had steadily been improving, their already strong working relation relationship changing to let a personal one bloom as well.  Or Mrs. Hudson, whom he’d known for quite some time now, and felt like he knew her more as a person after these past months.  There were so many things that he’d finally observed instead of just seen plainly through unobservant eyes.    
  
Sherlock raised his eyes to the sky he could see through the swaying sails and rigging, the shadow of the swaying mast casting him in shadows for what seemed like hours, but in reality were probably only minutes. His final minutes.  
  
“Yo, ho, haul together, hoist the Colors high.” The Jolly Roger he hardly ever flew was tucked safely into a cedar chest inside his personal cabin, and he sort of wished to see it before he went, just one last time.  “Heave ho, thieves and beggars, never shall we die.”  
  
The main mast finally came crashing down atop him.  
  
\--  
  
Aboard The Westwood, where both crews were still mostly lined up on deck to watch the display (those who weren’t manning the cannons) in rapt attention, the air was awash with emotions.  The pirate crew was a mass of grief and pained cries, both for their home and their beloved Captain Holmes, who’d tried to protect them and only ended up dead for his troubles.  Moriarty’s crew, those not currently engaged in some ship's work, were guarding them as they huddled together, sneers on their faces and harsh laughter coming out of their mouths.  And if Lestrade hadn’t been bound in irons, he would have punched the nearest one straight in his damn mouth.    
  
“Commander Moran, if you would be so kind as to escort our new guests down to the hold where they will be staying for the remainder of our trip to Port Royal.”  Moriarty’s cheerful voice punctured the grief like a cutlass through lace, sliding in deep enough to really dig down and hurt.  “I’m sure they’re dying to see the decor.”    
  
“Aye, Commodore.”  Moran said, his head nodding in the crew’s direction to start their descent into the bowels of The Westwood.  “Are we to keep them separate from the Merman, sir?”    
  
“Yes, of course!  I nearly forgot about dear old...err, what did you lot call him again?”  Moriarty’s fingers touched his lip gently, his brow furrowed as if trying to remember a long past acquaintance’s name.  “Jimmy, Jolly...something beginning with the letter ‘J’ yes?”    
  
“His name is John.”  Mrs. Hudson’s emboldened voice came from somewhere further down the deck than Lestrade, but he’s know her voice without having to see her face.  That sort of strength was hard to hide in a woman’s voice, but especially in the refined age that Martha had come to know.  “And you will show him the respect he deserves.  He’s lived a better, longer life than you lot.”    
  
Moriarty’s smile was quickly replaced with a snarl, lizard-like face with a grace that only comes with with unintentional revelation.  And just like any great beast hiding in plain sight under everyone's noses, the unveiling of him -the discovery that he had been amongst them the whole time- was beyond imagining.  Even Lestrade was tempted to take a mighty step back away from the clearly bubbling rage that hadn’t been there only seconds ago, but now looked to rival the fires of Hell itself.  It was like searching the dark for light and never finding one, so alone and lost in your emotions, in yourself, enough to completely break you.    
  
But his voice was calm and even when he spoke.    
  
“Neilson, do take this...charming woman down first.  And makes sure she’s as comfortable as you can maker her.”  His dark eyes never left Mrs. Hudson’s slightly quivering form, because she’d been yanked out of line by an impressively tall and close shaven man, who was holding her tightly by her upper arm.  “By all means, take your time.”    
  
The man named Neilson grinned as he dragged Mrs. Hudson off, using a set of stairs opposite to the ones that would descend into the lower hold where they were to be held.  No, these ones went down to the gun decks and probably the brig, if this ship had more than one that is, which knowing the Royal British Naval, it probably did.  Lestrade had a strong inkling that she would be returned later, bruised and bloody in places, some manners taught to her by the fists of crewman Neilson.    
  
Lestrade’s face turned into a scowl.    
  
“Now then, where was I?  Oh, yes!”  Moriarty’s facade was firmly back in place, the smile outshining the fact that it never reached his eyes.  “I want this lot on the other side of the ship from Johnny Boy, close enough to see him, but far enough away to not be able to help.  How does that sound?”    
  
Moran’s glare silence Lestrade and the rest of Captain Holmes’ crew before they could reply.    
  
“As I thought.”  Moriarty clapped happily.  “Off with you then, Moran, and do let me know when you get this lot settled.  I have a special welcoming gift in store for our aquatic guest.”    
  
\--  
  
Mycroft’s ship was quite possibly the fastest pirate ship in the Court fleet, being significantly larger than most, but incredibly well designed to be swift in the water.  Even so, it was still nearly impossible to turn around two days out of Tortuga to start heading in the opposite direction when word reached him that his brother was in dire need of his assistance.  (And Sherlock never asked for help, which only led to underlining just how crippling the situation had truly become for him.)  But he was anything but weak-willed, and so Captain Holmes the Senior had driven his crew to the brink by pushing them and the ship as hard as he could.  He had to make up for the lost time the message took arriving and just how far away he was from his younger brother.    
  
But he would make it.    
  
When he finally saw the billowing smoke on the distant horizon, he knew, that despite his best efforts, he had failed his younger brother and left him to his fate at Moriarty’s hands.  If Sherlock’s message was anything to go by, Mycroft expected to find a ship in ruins and a mass of floating, long-dead crew...his brother one of many to have gone to Davy Jone’s Locker.  And at the very worst, he would never find his beloved younger brother’s body, having lost his only chance through sheer stupidity on his own part.  He’d known Sherlock was in danger, he’d known when he’d gone to check upon him, but he sat back and left him on his own as Sherlock had asked.  And therein lay his mistake.    
  
When they’d made their final approach, the remnants of the ship burning in the surf, some only fit to be called driftwood, Mycroft himself was at the railing, looking for any signs of survivors.  But there were no bodies afloat in the waves as was common with sinking ships or capsized vessels.  In fact, apart from the burning wreckage, there was nothing to imply the ship had a crew at all, and hadn’t just met a fate at the hands of the angry goddess Calypso.  Had Moriarty taken his brother and his crew back to Port Royal after all?  Even when all signs seemed to imply that Moriarty wanted nothing more than to torture and kill his brother?    
  
Mycroft took a deep breath and closed his eyes for a moment, all the horrible scenarios raging in his brain, driving him to the brink of madness and back in the matter of moments.  His brain, much like Sherlock's, and indeed their long-deceased Father’s, functioned at a much higher speed than many others’ did.  TThat was often needed to get them into trouble that far out-weighed anything most normal people could imagine, but that was just what they needed. Without it, their minds would wallow and rot, left to such mundane ideas of life and the boring aspects of daily living. Sherlock often complained of being bored or unstimulated, his crack wit wasted on those who just could not conceive what he himself could.    
  
And now it would no longer grace this Earth.    
  
“Captain!  Look, out over there, clinging to the broken drift!”  The man sitting high in the crow’s nest, his eyes bright and fevered as he pointed out over the water and wreckage where a mass of something lay tangled in the remains of the once proud sails.  “A person, sir!  A person clinging to the mast!”  
  
Mycroft’s eyes snapped open quickly and tore through the scenery, seeking out the figure his crewman was speaking of.  Yes, there, tangled but floating face up with hands in a death grip against the wood was a familiar, dark-haired man.  He looked as pale as the sails themselves, and it was difficult to tell from this distance if he was still alive, but the tight grip on the wood was a good sign. Mycroft was intimately aware of the fact that his little brother could not swim.    
  
“Call the long boats down, and someone fetch me a spy glass!” He called out orders in his same even voice, not being able to afford to be emotional at this point.  Caring could often prove to be a disadvantage.  “Anthea, prepare to disembark and go to help me to collect my brother.  I will need all the help I can get.”    
  
Anthea gave a sharp nod and handed over the spyglass, thus revealing the floating figure to be Sherlock amongst the wreckage.  Mycroft closed the brass length of the spyglass with a snap as he strode towards the staboard where three longboats were being lowered to the water, the rigging and blocks straining in the haste in which they were tugging at the lines.  He divested himself of his hat and frock coat, needing to be spry enough to help haul his brother from the water’s tender hold, and not risking any unnecessary weight.  He was by no means a young man anymore, and although he did not rival Moses in age, he wasn’t as sturdy as he used to be.    
  
“Captain, they’re ready for you.”  Anthea said patiently, awaiting her Captain’s next orders with the grace she always had.  He was glad he’d never listened to those who would say things against her talents back when he’d discovered her in the Spanish Americas.  “Your orders, sir?”    
  
“Await my return, but keep the ship close in case of an attack.  Be on guard and prepared for any unexpected surprises.  Moriarty so does love those.” Mycroft said suspiciously, eyes furrowed only slightly as he planned.  “Be on your toes.”    
  
“Aye, Captain.”    
  
Captain Holmes quickly made arrangements and boarded the small vessel with a sense of purpose he hadn’t felt in ages, his mind alive and crackling with energy, his body shaking in its need to move.  Even though his men were working as fast as they possibly could, he could not help but fight the impulse to demand they do more in a faster pace.  It was an urge he often found himself reigning in while dealing with Sherlock, but now it took on a sharper edge that threatened to eviscerate him if he wasn’t cautious.    
  
The long boat moved gracefully to the clinging man’s side, so that he was easily able to lean over and with the help of his midshipman, hauled the form into the vessel with little resistance.  The body was pliant with unconsciousness rather than death, Mycroft was happy to observe, and though his brother was pale, it was not from the last fate as he had once feared.  They would make their way back to the ship as the as the other two boats made their rounds to look for other survivors, so that he might tend to his brother properly.    
  
The jostling from hauling him up the line rigging and over the railing to the main deck roused Sherlock, and although he probably needed rest after his ordeal, Captain Holmes found himself glad that he was capable of being awoken.  Trauma to the head was not always as mendable as damage to the body was, after all.  And while he had very skilled medics, it was likely that even their talents would go to waste if Sherlock had been hurt badly enough.    
  
“I got your message from Tortuga, brother dear,” Mycroft said, a scowl on his face as he helped haul Sherlock up and over the railing to the main deck, his back and torso slicked in sweat from the manual labor.  “But it appears that I arrived too late.  You are down a ship and definitely a crew, taken by Moriarty, no doubt.  There are no other bodies.”  
  
Sherlock only sputtered and flailed for a few moments, attempting to get his wits back about him, his face pressed to Mycroft’s shoulder as his hands randomly gripped at fabric.  The much younger man was struggling, Mycroft knew, but he could do nothing to help his brother regain his senses any faster.  To do so might lead to more problems than solutions, and when it came to the man’s mental health, he would not risk it.  He would be patient and wait for him to answer.    
  
He was left to wait for some time before Sherlock attempted to spring up.    
  
“John, they’ve taken John!”  He suddenly shouted, pushing himself up and away from Mycroft’s embrace, hair and eyes wild in panic, sea madness painting the blue of his eyes ferociously.  “We have to get him back before Moriarty kills him!  Him and my crew!  We must save them!”     
  
“Sherlock, Sherlock calm down!”  Mycroft insisted, holding the struggling body tight against his own in order to prevent further harm.  His wild flailing would only serve to hurt his damaged body further.  “You are safe now, and we will go for your crew.  Now who is this John fellow?  You’ve not mentioned gaining another crewman.”    
  
“John, he has done nothing, he is an innocent.”  Sherlock said, body relaxing almost uselessly against his will.  Exhaustion was almost certainly taking over at this point.  “I have sentenced him to death, Mycroft.  I only have three days to save them.  I must save them!”    
  
“Lucky for us that I have a fleet at my beck and call, isn’t it? I’ve already sent for other ships to meet up with us just off the coast of Jamaica, before we storm Port Royal.  We will not beat them there at this rate, but certainly we will corner them there.”  Sherlock could only stare at his brother in hardly concealed astonishment, his hand still randomly tightening in the fabric of his tunic.  “What, you thought me to roll over to the likes of James Moriarty?  Pirates never say die, Sherlock.  They merely sing for fortune, fame, and revenge.”


	12. Shiver My Timbers

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Fanart For This Chapter:
> 
> http:// maddhatter13. deviantart. com/ gallery/#/ d4vqpx7  
> http:// maddhatter13. deviantart. com/ favourites/ ?offset= 24#/d4w18li

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I’m talking about the British Virgin Islands in the first part of this, The Baths of Virgin Gorda specifically, which is a lovely bit of coastline with shallow pools and lots of rounded rock formations that sit happily in the sand. It is actually very beautiful, and though I’ve never been, I would sort of like to really go. Especially from all the photos. It seems like someplace that someone at home in the water or who loves the beach would really enjoy.
> 
> Well, in Michael Harrison’s “I, Sherlock Holmes” his father is named Captain Siger Holmes and works for the British East India Trading Company. As I am one for strange names, which fits with the Holmes Household, I took some liberties with the man’s name and his wife’s name, but try to somewhat keep the Siger bit, hence the Sydney Siger Holmes and his wife Odette Holmes. (In canon, the only bit mentioned about Sherlock’s ancestors is that they were country squires and that his grandmother -presumably on his mother’s side- was the sister to the French Artist Vernet. So I would imagine his mother is of French decent, hence the French name. I’m sure she was bilingual, which leads me to believe that so is Mycroft and Sherlock. 
> 
> Who, by the way, I love. I know Mycroft did Sherlock wrong, but I still can't help but love him. He did everything he did out of love for his brother, and even though he tells Sherlock that caring is not an advantage, he disregards his own advice and does so anyways. He's a bad ass character anyways on top of being a dutiful and remorseful brother.
> 
> Also, I’ve been listening to lots of pirate music or pirate themed songs while writing, and lots of them deal with the Pirates of the Caribbean ride at Disney. I haven’t been on it since they re-did it to match the movies, but back when it was still normal and pre-movie, there was a skeleton manning the helm at the beginning of the ride. It always terrified the shit out of me, and so I heard the old theme for the ride on youtube, and I know the exact point when you first see the skeleton, and then go into Tortuga, and so on. It was always my favorite ride, despite the skeleton, and so I was a bit sad when they decided to redo it. Has anyone been on the new version, and if so, how was it?

Sherlock dreamt he was lying on a golden beach, the warm Caribbean waters lapping at his body as he basked in the sun, the sound of music floating gently about his head.  He could see the large rounded stones that distinguished the beach as one he’d visited with his family before their tragic deaths many years before, the shallow pools and golden hideaways entertaining for an adventurous child, like Sherlock had been.  He’d spent many days crawling about the tide pools created by the rock formations in nothing but his trousers while his father went to meetings at the Naval outpost like all over-seeing Admirals should, his mother and maid watching over him day in and day out.  Their soft, constant presence always a pleasant warmth like the sun on his back. 

He remembered his mother’s fond smile, her calm countenance balancing his father’s often manic mind, their combination a whirlwind in both of their children, where Mycroft had gotten the wit and intelligence of their father but the composure of their mother, and Sherlock had gotten only the manic storm that was genius.  Mycroft ran off to join the Navy following in their father's footsteps, as he held the man in such a high esteem, and already he had become a captain, despite his youth.  Sherlock, nearly eight years Mycroft’s junior, had watched his beloved elder brother leave with the same sort of cool detachment he’d already begun to prefect even then, wishing on shooting stars and Mermaid Coins (pieces of seed pods or other debris carried in by the tide that his mother had named after he’d asked her what they were) that he could join him on his high sea adventures.  He hadn’t known then like he knew now that those high sea adventures were more terror than fantasy.  But even Sherlock had been a child once.

  
In some part of his mind, it made sense that he was back on that beach, playing in the shallow water and the wet sand.  It was his own Mind Palace, so to speak, and was a safe place that he often went to in order to relax and gather his wits.  Sherlock had thought of this beach often while on his voyages, his mind straying to times that were less deadly and more carefree, clinging to the certain hope that he would find a place like that again some day.  When later he realized that it would never be the same type of physical or mental comforts even if he were to actually go back there, he’d started using the idealized version of his childhood landscape as a place he stored important mental information.  Using a variety of trunks, crates, boxes, bags, and other types of receptacles, he’d created a sort of mental dumping ground he doubted many others had, and though there were no buildings on it, to him it was still a Palace.  
  
The only problem Sherlock had with being back here was that he didn’t remember coming back here.  
  
He’d done a lot of stupid things in his life, sure, and though he wouldn’t outright call them stupid, he knew other people would without hesitation.  This was probably one of those things, because despite wanting to leave the beach and return to his world, full of stress and problems and a threatened crew, he couldn’t.  He couldn’t leave the beach.  Because ever time he moved to do so, the sticky sand pulled at his feet, keeping the beach of his memories, _without_ those all-important memories. The boxes and trunks that normally littered the shoreline were absent, and the crates he’d started stacking to make shapes or building-type structures were nothing but ruins in the tide.  A tide that was distinctly stronger than he remembered it to be as it pulled at his legs and trousers insistently.    
  
Now Sherlock was somewhat panicked.  He was on a familiar, yet totally foreign beach, the rocks seemingly normal and the sand the same shade of eggshell and vanilla it always had been, but at the same time oh so different.  The rocks loomed instead of playfully rising out of the sand, the water was freezing where it touched his feet and ankles, his trouser line soaked in tiny crystals of ice, and the sun no longer felt warm, but instead felt cloying, murky through clouds that weren’t in the sky mere seconds ago.  In fact, it wasn’t the sky at all he was looking at, it was the rest of the world reflected through the surface of the water above him.  He wasn’t above in the sun at all, and the sand was holding him just far enough underwater that his finger tips could skim the top but he could get no further than one or two inches out into the open.  He could feel the air!  It was there, just out of his reach!    
  
Sherlock couldn’t breathe...  
  
Slowly pain began to intensify in his ankles and legs, pinpricks of cold at first quickly turning to daggers of ice and intense, shooting pain.  It felt as if someone was stabbing him in the leg multiple times with large daggers made of ice, the cold morphing into a burning sensation unlike any other he’d ever felt.  It was completed with the feeling not unlike bands of cold-morning iron, one on each foot, dragging him further and further from the surface.  His breath was escaping him in great waves now, the large air bubbles ascending only to be scattered by his hands and lost to the nearly opaque surface under which everything took on a sickly pale green color.    
  
It reminded him of the flesh on the cadavers he’d seen, the bodies slowly losing whatever it was that gave them their healthy pallor, the blood congealing and creating dark, gloopy puddles within the husks that had once been a person.  He remembers the color vividly from his childhood all the way through his days at University, where more than one of his professors had shown them diseases such as Smallpox, Dysentery, and Typhus. They’d used them as examples for their teaching methods or debate positions, but Sherlock had never gotten much past the cadavers themselves because they always reminded him.    
  
Reminded him of his parents, floating in the ocean with him for days before another boat found the wreckage. Their familiar faces discolored and bloated from the exposure to surf and air, his little body perched on some flotsam near them, uncomprehending of how he’d gotten out of the water and onto the wreckage after the pirate attack.  The attack had come out of nowhere, no alarms being raised, no panic, and no warning before the cannon fire ripped through the side of the ship in the late afternoon, reducing it to no more than kindling.  His mother had protected him through much of the barrage, but soon he’d been torn from her, his smaller body being tossed to the deck railing by a murderous impact that had shaken the entire ship, followed by another, and another.  He’d been flung into the water after that, and when he came too, he found himself on one of the ornately carved cabin doors.  

  
Sherlock had no true memory of how he had gotten out of the water, but very faintly could recall strong hands holding him up and setting him somewhere firm.  When he’d fully come too his father was draped across the wood with him, facing away form him, his white shirt stained red and black in places, the water around them tainted, bleeding into other bodies that were scattered around them.  He could remember calling to his father but being afraid to move on the make-shift raft for fear of slipping form it and into the dark waters around them, his father not answering his questions.  He remembers lying out on his belly slowly, ever so slowly, sliding towards him to touch with one small hand only to find icy skin and harness where pliant flesh should be.When he’d fully come to his father was draped across the wood with him, facing away from him, his white shirt stained red and black in places, and the water around them tainted, bleeding into other bodies that were scattered around them. He could remember calling to his father but being afraid to move on the makeshift raft for fear of slipping from it and into the dark waters around them, his father not answering his questions. He remembers carefully crawling on his belly, ever so slowly sliding towards his father to touch with one small hand only to find icy skin and hardness where pliant flesh should be.  Admiral Sydney Siger Holmes and his wife Odette were no longer apart of the living, and neither was the remainder of the crew.    
  
He had been the only survivor.    
  
Set adrift in a sea of wreckage and loss.    
  
But now it was looking like he’d be joining them at long last in their watery prison beneath the very waves he sailed upon, brought down by the icy hands of fate, the nails of ice bearing him so much pain he could hardly think straight.  He knew that drowning took the longest to die because the brain processed the three or four minutes it took as an infinitely longer period of time due to the pain and panic, but this seemed to go on forever.  Just like the ocean which was still pouring into his mouth, choking him, cutting off any hopes for air. Now it looked like he’d be joining them at long last in their watery prison beneath the very waves he'd sailed upon, brought down by the icy hand of Fate, the nails of ice clutching him with so much pain he could hardly think straight. He understood that drowning was the longest way to die because the brain processed the three or four minutes it took as an infinitely longer period of time due to the pain and panic, but this seemed to go on forever.  Down, down, down, the icy hands pulled him, and in the end, Sherlock could not help but glance down into his tormenter's face and scream the rest of his air away.    
  
  There was John, a horribly decaying, disfigured John, his long bony, clawed hands wrapped tight around his ankles, dragging him into the abyss.  They were not iron bands biting into his flesh, but the jagged bones of John’s hands that were poking from beneath the water-logged flesh, the icy points where the nails bit in deep, blood seeped out into the water, giving it a darker tint.  Sherlock could only see the bones that would serve as the spine into John’s tail, because the flesh from the waist down was gone, eaten by Moriarty in a fit of revenge, and the few fins left along his upper torso were torn and ragged, useless from the holes and rips.  But it was his eyes that were haunting Sherlock the most, the very bright blue lit by an unnatural glow shining out at him from beneath lank, darkened strands of hair, tinted by the water, death, and blood.  They shown like tiny windows into the Beyond, and slowly they were ripping away Sherlock’s very soul.    
  
Of course he struggled harder at finding John to be the one dragging him beneath the surface of the water, not only because he’d never shown such malicious intent toward him or the crew, but also because he was scared.  He was so utterly out of his mind in fear that he hardly knew what to do with himself, and as more precious oxygen escaped his raw and aching throat, the closer John’s eyes and very pointy smile seemed to be.  This was his fate, to drown at the hands of the unearthly friend he had betrayed, and then be consumed forever by both John and the ocean itself.    
  
Fitting...  
  
Sherlock screamed.    
  
\--  
  
The darkness was warm now as Sherlock’s eyes flickered beneath his eyelids, still closed as if by heavy weights.  He felt strung out, tired, and achy in places he never knew existed until now.  But he was no longer held beneath the waves by John’s slowly decomposing corpse, and his parents' screams were not echoing in his ears along side his very loud heart beat, which was always a good sign.  In fact, his heart was only beating slightly harder than it normally did, and his lungs were contracting normally, his breathing not exactly smooth or pain free, but relatively even.    
  
Sherlock tried to open his eyes but was immediately assaulted by the stinging light around him.  It was invading every nook and cranny in his entire brain, lighting up the spaces that hadn’t seen such brightness since he was just a child.  He recoiled in a flash, his lead-weighted arms dragging themselves up faster than he thought possible to help block out the painful stimulation, a hiss escaping through his teeth.  Slowly his body began to adjust to the levels of light, but he still had to blink and clear his vision rapidly in order to see even the fuzziest of outlines occupying the room he was in.  But he could feel the mattress beneath his body and the duvet and sheets covering his lower half, his sweat-soaked hair sticking to his forehead.  Ah, well that would explain why some of the dark shapes weren’t clearing his vision like the others were.  
  
The stray curls and the figure currently half-perched on his bedside remained constant though, even after a few minutes of adjusting again.  And the more Sherlock stared at it, the more he realized that he knew the figure, but he couldn’t quite put his finger on just who it was or why they would be sitting at his bedside.    
  
It struck him harder than cannon fire that it was his elder brother Mycroft sitting there, his normally pristine appearance a far cry from how he looked now.  His outer coat was still missing, though the shirt from much earlier was replaced with a fresh one, though this one too was stained with damp patches of sweat in places that implied that either it was damningly hot outside or he had been struggling with something.  Which in itself was unusual considering that Mycroft preferred to let others do his heavily lifting for him, only stooping to do it when all else failed or if his personal touch was called for.  Sherlock could only remember a few times in his entire life that he’d seen Mycroft do something himself, but all of those exceptions had been dealt with swiftly and with an air of deadly grace that Sherlock would never have associated with his brother.  He was not incapable of doing it, oh no, he just preferred to delegate his little tasks.    
  
“Welcome back, Sherlock.”  Mycroft said tensely from the bed side, his normally perfectly-coiffed hair sticking up slightly in the front, the tell-tale curls in a rat's nest.  “How do you feel?  A bit better, I should hope.”    
  
Sherlock groaned at his brother, his eyes rolling as he tried to focus on him and the rest of the cabin he seemed to be resting in once he’d gotten his bearings somewhat.  Mycroft’s cabin, he realized momentarily, and he was in Mycroft’s bed, not a free hammock or even the padded window seat he once frequented while aboard The Minor Imposition the last time.  He was in a comfortable bed with actual sheets, and even a pillow from the feel of it.  God, he felt like he was seven again at home in bed with a fever.    
  
“I’ll take the grumbling as doing better, but still fairly under the weather.  No doubt your head is still pounding, you’ve been laid low with a rather nasty fever for the past day and a half, or so.”  Sherlock’s eyes flew wide at that, his hands reaching for purchase with which to leverage himself up.  “Now, now, rest, and do try to take it easy.  We’re almost to Port Royal and I’m sure to be needing your assistance.  You should be feeling better by the time we make port.”    
  
“What happened?”  His voice was hoarse with disuse, croaking slightly as he asked the heaviest question weighing on his mind.  The last thing he remembered was being bound to the mast of his ship, the cannon fire ringing in his ears as he was sure he was going to die there for his misdeeds.  “How did I get here?”  
  
“I arrived too late to save your ship from going down, I’m afraid.”  Mycroft said gravely, his face suddenly taking on a drawn and waxy look, his eyes breaking with Sherlock’s gaze to stare at the trinkets on the bed side table.   “You were clinging to a broken part of the mast in the wreckage, your hands still bound, though the rest of you was free.  I have no idea how you survived the sinking of the ship or got out of the wreckage, considering your little water problem.”    
  
Sherlock could only stare and blink, the events a total blank.    
  
He had no idea how he’d gotten unchained and untied, let alone how he got above water alive.    
  
“You wrists became infected shortly after we fished you from the mess, and you have a rather nasty gouge taken out of your side where we pulled quite the splinter of wood from you.” Mycroft continued dutifully, his eyes once more seeking Sherlock's, something deep and hidden shining for a second before being ruthlessly snuffed out.  “The gouge was deep but small in size, and should give you no trouble as long as you don’t do anything too foolish, but your wrists are another story and are bound to be sore for a while.”    
  
“That explains the burning.”  Sherlock replied shortly, preferring to not think about his recent brush with Death, the icy hand of Fate touching him in a mockery of a lover’s embrace.  “I do not remember much, including how I got off the boat and out of the water, Mycroft.  I can’t remember much past the first few bits of cannon fire.”    
  
Mycroft nodded briskly and hummed his understanding, his frame shifting minutely before he stood and took a step away from the bed.  His hands saw their way to the small of his back where they clasped together in the old memory of a military stance, his  features pinched in thought the way they got during his strategic plotting.  Sherlock merely watched the tactical genius that was his brother move about the room, his expressions never giving away what he was thinking, the cogs and gears whirling away inside Mycroft’s skull.  And whirling they were, at top speed, the beautiful mechanics as much of a dance as any waltz ever created.  As much as Sherlock was a genius, and he was one in his own right, his brother was probably more so, and it sometimes irked him to admit it, to truly see it for what it was.    
  
But when he saw his brother’s true merit rise to the surface in such a spectacular fashion, even he was hard-pressed to keep to himself how humbling it was a sight.  Mycroft had been practically born and bred as a tactical genius, his graceful plots and tight knit executions more beautiful than anything else in the moment of a plan’s full crest.  His father had been brilliant in the field, but he could hardly compete with his eldest son, and even though Mycroft was younger by many years, he was often the first called upon during his service in the King’s Royal Navy.  He was always the first called upon now in the Pirate King’s Court, but that was for more than just the sum of his brilliant mind, Sherlock knew.    
  
Which reminded him.    
  
“Will Harry be joining us at Port Royal?”  He asked, the ice in his eyes floating on a sea of emotional pain, pain he was trying to cover so that he didn’t feel quite so useless when his brother was being anything but.  “We could certainly use the support and cover.”    
  
Mycroft’s mouth twitched at that, just the faintest of smirks playing upon his mouth when he turned to answer Sherlock.  It was so much like Sherlock’s own smirk, one they shared with their Mummy, that the sudden rush of fondness was hardly containable in either of them.  On some level, they’d always shared thoughts like that, their singular points of emotional contact since their own self-inflicted isolation.  Until Sherlock found John, that is, but Mycroft hardly knew that.    
  
“Of course, Sherlock.  You know he dotes on you so, and I doubt he’d refuse a direct request for help from either of us, let alone the one I sent to him on both of our behalves.”  Mycroft waved some imaginary piece of dust from his shirt front carelessly, the motion one of airy detachment.  “I’m certain that by now The Queen’s Pride is in need of a timely sea voyage.  Wouldn’t you agree?”    
  
“Oh yes, after her last run some time ago, I’m sure he’s just itching for a good adventure.”  Sherlock’s response was of one steeped in amusement, his tone light for the first time in days.  “He wouldn’t be considered a true Pirate King if he weren’t.”    
  
“Quite.”  Mycroft’s laugh was deadly, as always.  “I’d expect no less from him and his loyal fleet of cutthroats and riff-raff. Dead men tell no tales, after all.”


	13. Message In A Bottle

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> If you’re looking for Moriarty’s bathtub from this chapter, you can either follow the few links I’ve got below, or simply google “Wooden Bathtubs” or “Wooden Barrel Bathtubs” to find some great examples of what I had in mind. If you’d like a frame of mind, the one I have envisioned here is about waist high, so it is deep enough for most of John to lounge into, but not completely. 
> 
> http:// hottubsite. nl/ beheer/ img/ Bathtub. jpg  
> http:// bathroomdesigned. com/ wp-content/ uploads/ 2011/06/il_ 570xN. 251672944- 550x318. jpg

The Westwood, a grand vessel for all intents and purposes, had a ship’s hold that was unusual and hidden deep beneath the main deck. Bellow the central hold and gun deck were usually where the brig or prison quarters were located, but The Westwood seemed to have a uniquely designed Ponton space where the pirate crews taken captive were to be held. What was so strange about it was that the floor opened up to show the lowest parts of the hold where the ballast was carried, and at one far end of the low-ceiling chamber, the floor just stopped.  From there, it was an open space that led into the lowest parts of the hold, mildewed and damp from the water that often found its way inside the massive vessel through small leaks in the hull.  On top of all the ballasts and weights placed on the bottom to keep the ship steady on the ocean, the hold was filled with more bilge and sea water than most ships ever saw inside its hull at any one time.  The bilge that had leaked into the bottom of The Westwood was horrendously foul and putrid by now: almost as much as Moriarty and his crew was at heart.  The water was not only brackish and strong smelling with stagnation, the weights and wooden walls were slimy with mold and growth.  It was the only sort of life that could be supported in the darkened waters that rarely saw the sunlight, and in its dark persistence, it flourished.  The dank hold was no sort of place for living beings, especially ones as big and beautiful as John was.    
  
Moriarty had him wrestled down there by Moran and his men, chained by his hands and wrists to one of the supporting beams at the center of the ship, the large iron hooks rusted over from exposure.  He was out of sight for the most part, Sherlock’s crew being on the other side of the ship from him and equally bound to their respective walls.  Though some of the smaller boys in the lot were lithe enough to contort and pull on the chains connecting them so that they could pull to the edge and lean over to take a peek at John, they weren’t good enough to get down to help him anymore than they could help themselves.  Their little red-rimmed eyes could only focus on the brutal force that was the Merman’s infuriated, trapped wrath.    
  
They could see that the Commodore had John stripped of all his beautiful necklaces and jewels, the gems and shells no longer adorning his broad chest like they had for the months they’d known him.  He looked oddly naked without them, the gills the only color that broke the odd coloration of his upper torso before it bled into the familiar tan that so mimicked human’s skin tone.  And even those were not as beautiful as they normally were, the area around them rubbed raw from the handling and the rope net he’d been dragged around with, the long exposure to the air not helping any.  They hadn’t fared much better when Moran had dumped the Merman’s body into the disgusting water before he finished trussing him up like the catch of the day.  He’d hardly gotten damp when he was half-hauled out of the sludge and back into the air.    
  
At first, John was still impossibly strong, the iron links chaining him to the ship straining and creaking beneath his superhuman strength, the rings in the beams groaning as they were twisted and stretched. He fought and flailed, his golden tail splashing unhappily in the slimy water, the discolored muck flying with each mighty toss and turn he made.  John’s growls, hisses, and loud, pained cries were ringing true in the air about them all, causing most of the crew to flinch at the heartrending sounds.  They were probably loud enough that they made their way darkly onto the upper decks at some point, though neither the Commodore or the Commander ever returned to see what was causing him to make such noises to begin with.    
  
And so John’s injustices were ignored.    
  
As time dragged on, the sweltering heat of midday burned up the internal structure of the ship and all within them.  It bathed the occupants of the special brig in the wearying humidity and heavy air, the crew affected by the close quarters, their bodies tightly crammed together so that their breathing was labored and wheezing in the close proximity.  Sweating bodies were forced together by irons and lengths of warmed metal, the clanking only adding to the irritation they all faced.  Fatigue had already begun to set in, and as the air began to grow thick and foul, everyone’s protests and struggles dwindled. Even John’s own growls had died off in the heat, the hissing noise becoming thinner and thinner as time drug on.    
  
Tiny Tim, one of the last to be dragged aboard The Westwood behind the nasty Commander Moran, was the last to be chained in with the others.  As such, he was able to lower himself over the edge of the platform more so than any of the other boys, and had a better view of the Merman than anyone else in the entirety of the crew.  He could clearly see John hanging from the irons, stretched as far as he could possibly get into the blackened water bellow him, the water barely touching the lowest points on his second lowest gill slits.  His large, delicate membranes were ruffled and swollen, flaring uselessly in the stifiling air, unable to remain as damp as they needed to be the longer he was forced to remain out of the water, even the bilge he was lying in.  And like his fish-like qualities would suggest, he was slowly suffocating this long out of proper sea water.    
  
In the short of it, John was dying, his body sluggishly drying out where it was exposed to the heated air, and being poisoned by the dirty water he was forced to lounge in, even though he tried to prevent his fate by submerging himself as much as he could.  Earlier on it might have worked, when he was healthy enough to fight off the toxins that were growing in the mold, but not now, and with his compromised breathing and rapidly dwindling immune system that wasn’t used to such land-based poisons, it was only speeding up the process.  The Merman was slowly being leeched of every bit of strength and shine he had, his fight and life force flying from him in great waves as the tail lost some of its ethereal luster.  It was horrible, Tim decided silently, to see such a magnificent creature being treated like he was nothing more than just another animal caught on the high seas.    
  
“Tim, what do you see?”  Lestrade asked from his place against the bow in the ship’s walls, the irons on his hands still holding him in place, even though he had a clear view of the small boy leaning dangerously over the platform’s edge.  “Why is John being so quiet now?  He’s stopped splashing about a while ago.”    
  
“I think he’s dying,” came Tiny Tim’s slight voice, the words louder than thunder in the suddenly dead quiet space.  “Like what happens when a fish is out of the water too long.  He can’t lay down in the bilge, his irons hold him too far up.  His gills are really red.”    
  
“Oh, God in Heaven.”  Lestrade whispered in horror, eyes wide as Tiny Tim once more leaned over the wood to stare below.  “Tim, you need to tell me how long you think he has.  Can we help him?”    
  
“Maybe, if we make enough noise.”  Came his serious response.  “We can’t help him, but the other crew might be able too.”    
  
It was all the prompting the rest of the crew took.    
  
Their cries alone were a mess at best, annoying to the others in the close quarters, but with a purpose, they were singularly intense and loud, determination all the force they needed to help John.  Their shouting was meant to attract someone’s attention from above, anyone that could be alerted to the Merman’s quickly closing fate, even the lowliest of crewmen.  They had to get someone down here, someone that could help John.  It would be what their Captain would want them to do.    
  
Their ruckus got someone’s attention all right. That someone being Commodore Moriarty himself.  
  
“All right, all right, what’s going on down here?” His airy light tone rang in the thick air of the brig. “Why are all of you disrupting my crew so much with all that racket?”    
  
Lestrade took the plunge.  
  
“It’s John, your Commander tied him too high out of the water down there.  Now he’s dying!” His voice was probably more impertinent than it had any right to be, but with Sherlock gone, it fell to Lestrade to lead and protect the remaining crew.  And he wasn’t about to let the late Captain Holmes down, and they all considered John part of the crew.  “You’re killing him slowly!  He can’t breathe down there all strung up like that!”    
  
Moriarty turned and blinked at him slowly in an owlish fashion, round brown eyes impossibly placed on his face.  True the man was a social chameleon, a lizard in a man’s body, able to hide in plain sight and change how he looked on will, but this seemed almost...genuine.  As if he was a small child who didn’t know how to fix his dying pet frog when he found it lethargic in its cage, unresponsive even though he would endlessly beg it to move.  And maybe that was an apt description, because not even Lestrade knew how to begin taking care of John outside of the water, or how to get him back to his normal, active self.  Both men clearly were fearful of John’s early departure, and though Moriarty had said he planned to devour John like some delicacy, he was looking a might bit worried about unscheduled death that might occur.    
  
Something seemed to steel within Commandant Moriarty.    
  
Quickly the smaller man turned on his dress heels and pattered back to the stairs leading out of the hold, the door left to bang open in the wind of his departure.  The crew could hear the deliberate clacking of the expensive shoes as they went up, up, up towards the main deck, the faint sounds of heated voices carrying in the air. There wasn’t anything definite to make out word wise, but the demands were evident by the tone and intensity of whoever was talking, and as quick as they started, they stopped.  The silence that followed was long and tense before two sets of feet made their way back down the steps and into the Ponton together, Sebastian Moran walking deliberately in front, a scowl on his face, and James Moriarty behind him.    
  
  “Check him,” the Commodore demanded, voice icy, eyes flashing as he nodded towards the far side of the ledge, where the steps down to the bilge were.  Each one caked with grime and filth.  “If he is as they say he is, you will be moving him out from down there and up onto the main deck.”    
  
Commander Moran grumbled before making his way down the steps with an air of lethal grace that most would find intimidating.  His body was tall and lean, trained for years in the art of killing and life on the high seas, muscle mass built for the life, his mentality to match.  It was why he made such an excellent Commander to the tactical genius that was James Moriarty, because even though he was smart in his own right, he was far better at the physical execution part of a plan, rather than the planning.  He could plot and plan, of course, but that hardly meant he wanted to, and this post left the tediums of planning to someone who reveled in it and left him to the task he favored most.  All of which often involved Moran getting his hands dirty. But he rarely minded, and he knew that Moriarty knew as well, which left them with a partnership that most Captain and Commanders only dreamed of.    
  
It was due to that symbiotic partnership that he was able to predict what it was his Captain was looking for in the Merman’s overall health as he stooped down, squatting at nearly eye level.  The beast was mangy, that was for certain, more so than he had been those few hours ago when he’d been brought aboard.  The distinctly ocean smell was stronger now, though maybe it was the horribly rancid water he was stretched out in, but the fishy smell hadn’t been there before.  The Merman was clearly struggling to breathe in his current position, the upper torso red in splotches and long stripes, the gills puffy and inflamed from drying out, fluttering uselessly at odd intervals as if begging for the bilge water. A once mighty golden tail was dull and almost boneless now, the mass of muscle lax and weak. It barely acknowledged Moran when he knelt close to him, a calloused hand poking here and prodding there, a weak trill of protest the only sign it felt the pain being inflicted upon it.    
  
It was disgustingly pathetic.  
  
“Well, Seb?” Moriarty asked, voice calling down from the platform above, his eyes seeking where the Commander was kneeling next to the searching form of the great Merman.  “What do you think?”  
  
“He’s suffocating all right, Commodore, and in a lot of pain if the red signifies anything, which means he’s probably way on his way to dying all right. What a shame,” Moran said as he traced John’s gills with his fingers again, the Merman still only crying out weakly in protest. “He’s gasping down here and his gills are swollen and puffy. If he doesn’t start breathing properly, he’s going to expire prematurely.”    
  
“And we can’t have that, now can we?”  Moriarty whistled shrilly, shaking his head in denial.  His eyes were far away, searching out something on a horizon only he could see.  “At least not yet.  Not until the time’s right, and by then we’ll be at our destination and our dear friend Sherlock will be out of time.  So will the golden John, but not until then.”    
  
“Your orders, Captain?”  Moran said as he resumed his standing position, looking up over his shoulder at the scheming man, ignoring the terrified eyes of the crew still chained behind his Commandant.  “What would you like done?”    
  
“Bring him on deck.  I’ll call for my bathtub to be brought on deck proper and filled with fresh sea water, and you can place him there.”  Moriarty said as he walked towards the door, heels clicking on the wood as he moved, Moran’s affirmative call following behind him.  “He can wallow in that water out in the sun proper, as is his species’s wont.  That way we can keep a better eye on our precious cargo.”    
  
Moriarty’s personal tub, a large, wooden affair bound tightly in metal bands as if it had started life as a wine cask, was called for the moment the Commodore. The monstrous size of the tub was grossly out of proportion with Moriarty’s small frame, and stood well to the man’s waist when set upright, but it was spacious and allowed for movement and it was why the Commodore had purchased it to begin with. It was manhandled onto the high deck by several burly crewmen, whose struggling with the weight made the Commodore smile as he watched them work, the solid wooden planking smooth and hard to grip. It was then quickly filled with bucket after bucket of seawater, the glistening liquid filling it almost all the way to the brim, sans Merman, which Moran was carrying on his own.  
  
The man was slowly making his way up the remainder of the stairs that lead onto the main deck from the hold, the Merman slung lengthwise across his broad shoulders, the ruffled tail dragging wetly against the wood as they went.  John hadn’t even tried to fight back once Moran had undone the chains still supporting his upper torso, and plunged face first into the bilge without any further restraints.  He didn’t move to sit up or protect his body when the Commander went to pick him up and move him into a more comfortable position, only cried out in pain when the fabric of the man’s shirt drug against swollen, sticky membranes.  All his limbs hung limply from his height, the face and golden hair burrowed into Moran’s side as he moved the Merman, the once powerful tail flicking only by involuntary movements rather than actual reason.    
  
Commander Moran only seemed to struggle beneath John’s totall weight once, having to stop himself from toppling forwards as he climbed the last set of stairs up onto the high deck where the tub was located.  The tail had tugged him nearly off-balance when it caught on the lowest step, but Sebastian quickly righted himself before continuing on his way up the steps and towards the swiftly filling tub.  It glistened in the afternoon sunlight, the bright shine of it reflecting off the dull scales of John’s tail, catching the Merman’s eyes as it lifted its head away from the Commander’s body in anticipation, its trilling increasing with every step towards the tub.    
  
“See, the monstrous beast wants it, Seb.”  Moriarty said as Moran stooped down to gently lower a now wriggling John into the water, his long body shivering and writhing to get as much of his body into the cool water as he could.  “Oh, ho, ho, yes he does.  He most certainly does.”    
  
Indeed, John did, and once Moran had let go, he dove beneath the relatively deep water, totally submerging himself and most of his large tail and torso as he went, the strong gills flaring beautifully in smooth moves.  He rounded about the tub a few times, splashing water all over the deck as he went, long clawed hands and a tail that was quickly returning to its former glory, moving rapidly about as he went.  Moriarty watched in rapt attention, his dark eyes never moving from John’s beautiful form, a spark deep in the black that was Moriarty’s soul exploding into a supernova.  His Commander just stood back and sneered at the sea creature as it returned to its former energetic state, blue eyes flashing as it finally emerged from beneath the life-giving water.    
  
It trilled loudly at Moriarty and Moran before ducking back down once more.    
  
Moriarty just smirked before returning to his activities.  
  
“All right, back to work the lot of you!”  He called over his shoulder as he turned his desk and chair to face John’s new home, the tub only a few paces away from him as he worked, the Merman watching warily in return.  “We’ve got to get to Port Royal to finish our business, restock supplies, and then make our way back out to sea before the Full Moon!  We’re running out of time!”


	14. Sail

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Three most well-populated Mermaid spots: 
> 
> Whitecap Bay - Mermaid Cove - Mermaid Island

Sherlock blinked wearily up at the lofty space above his head, his sweat making the sheets and duvet cling to his body.  As the youngest, his brother had often sat by his bedside until he fell asleep, but now it only dragged up unpleasant memories of a happiness long gone and a time that could never be again.  It hurt both men to think of it, really, and so they generally avoided it at all costs.  It was probably why they fought so often, because fighting and anger were easier to feel than the pain and awkwardness of their shared history.  Neither man wanted that sort of battle.  
  
And so they stayed apart from one another for years, Mycroft following in their Father’s footsteps as soon as he was able, but then leaping from the path with all the grace of a large amphibian when whatever had happened to him actually occurred.  Sherlock had never been privy to why Mycroft decided to go rogue, and at his elder brother’s insistence that they never discuss the topic, he felt that he would possibly never know.  (Though deep down he thought that it probably had something to do with the deaths of their parents, he would never, could never, ask properly.)  It wasn’t until years later -without any contact between the two of them- that Sherlock soured on England and had the secretly long-for reunion with his brother.  Unfortunately, his brother had changed in the years spent apart from Sherlock, and indeed he too had changed, his once naive view of the world quickly jaded and thrown aside for a much more appropriate view.    
  
They’d become jaded, Sherlock had realized, and they could not face it.  
  
Not together.  
  
And certainly not by themselves.  
  
So they’d lived in solitude, their minds and petty games the only things keeping them anchored to reality.  Both of them had imposed a sort of boundary upon themselves, as well as the crew they quickly assumed, ever present but still untouchable.  Like the finest of spun glass encased within steel as thick as the beams in the shipyards upon soil of Mother England, their fragile bits were tucked away from the light and prying eyes, protected from everything, and unreachable by even themselves.  After so long of living that way, they had become used to it, and even now Mycroft continued to live that way, rarely showing any signs of humanity beneath his icy exterior.  It was where his famous nickname “The Ice Man” had come from, after all, and though Mycroft secretly detested the thing, it served him well.  And not even he could refute that.    
  
But unlike Mycroft, Sherlock’s armor had been chinked and cracked over time, slowly wearing thin in places that not even he could see to repair in time.  He would break down in the privacy of his own quarters, away from prying eyes when confronted with the sudden emotional pains he felt, or the crippling sense of loss that assaulted him when someone in his crew left for Davy Jones or was taken by the authorities to be hung.  He would never let anyone see that side of him, his soft, pink, tender underbelly.  He would never let anyone think that they could reach him, The Ice Man’s younger sibling and Ice Man in training himself, and he would never let anyone willingly beneath the patchwork armor he had erected about himself.    
  
Then he met John, of course, and everything had gone to Hell quicker than he could ever have imagined.  The Merman had done in a few days what men like Moriarty had been trying to do for years, and in the span of a few weeks, had wormed his way beneath the icy metal and into the central core of the fragility that was Sherlock Holmes.    Once there he’d proceeded to gather the splintering pieces and began the laborious process of putting them to rights instead of taking them from him forever.  John had never once shown greed in his task, only patience and a warm calm that thawed even the thickest of ice surrounding Sherlock’s heart, his inhuman hands putting things to rights in a way that was damn near impossible for humans.  But just like how he’d crafted his fine jewelry that hung from his neck, John shaped and molded Sherlock again, casting and re-casting him until he was closer to his original appearance than he had been when he’d left England under chase.    
  
Sherlock’s guilt was quickly suffocating him.    
  
“John, I’m so sorry...” He whispered into the air, the silence of the cabin, uncaring if Mycroft -of all people- heard his confession.  Sherlock would have to inform his brother at some point anyways, would have to tell him that he knew his time was quickly coming.  “But know that you will be at peace with me soon.  Goodbye, John.”    
  
Moriarty was going to be the end of him.    
  
He’d always known really, somewhere in the back of his mind, that Moriarty was going to be the one to kill him.  When they’d first met, introduced by Captain Powers aboard his ship, Sherlock had instantly known something was afoul.  It wasn’t until later that he placed the feeling as discomfort and a other-worldly sense of upheaval, of the pain that came from knowing that you are looking Death in the face.  Of course, back then he hadn’t known he was destined to be a pirate, he’d only thought that James “Please, call me Jim!” Moriarty was going to be rid of him and rise to take what he had.  So he’d made all the precautions he could which had undoubtedly lead to his life aboard his ship and sea.  Precautions that had set him up to be the perfect scapegoat for Carl’s death, and the death of many others in his company.    
  
So when Moriarty had been the one sent after him, and by default after all the other unruly pirates in the Caribbean Sea, Sherlock quickly put two and two together.  Eventually even the best of players had to grow tired of the Game, and though it was a glorious one, full of mystery, intrigue, and challenge, it would eventually claim him as a casualty, or perhaps Moriarty and Moran.  A casualty of war really, because that’s what their Game had grown to become, and when it happened, Moriarty would win, or Sherlock would win, and then it would all be over.  Back to the boring life of mental stagnation, and that was a worse way to go than a glory filled death at the hands of a worthy opponent.  But then the Game had changed, Moriarty had taken John, a being that shouldn’t have been a player to begin with, and the rules had shifted, as had the balance of power.  Sherlock had quickly gone from keeping his head above water to drowning, losing his end of everything, and it was with that power-filled move that Sherlock realized his end was nearing.    
  
“You have yet to inform me on just who this mysterious John fellow is.”  Mycroft said loftily from his seat at his rather ornate looking desk, the fine wood glowing in the waning sunlight of the first day of Sherlock’s sentence when the younger awoke.  “And just why you have three days to get him and the remainder of your crew back.  Though I’m sure that the last part has more to do with Moriarty than whoever this John person is.”    
  
Mycroft seemed to be ignoring the crippling wave of sadness Sherlock had let loose not three minutes prior, his apology to the universe swept away along with everything else.  Sherlock wasn’t sure if it was a blessing or a damning finger in his chest, but took it all in stride, turning to look his brother in the face as he spoke.  He would never back down from Mycroft, couldn’t really, not anymore.  Especially not after all he’d been doing to help his younger brother survive.    
  
“It has to do with them both, Mycroft.”  Sherlock’s response was light but deadly, the dead seriousness of the situation doing more to color his tone than he’d like.  He’d always tried to reign in his emotions like his elder brother, The Ice Man, but he failed sometimes. They all failed, sometimes. “It always had to do with them both.  True, Moriarty has been following me relentlessly since we met, but he took something more precious from me than he ever knew.  I intend to have it back.”    
  
“We’ll be in Port Royal later this evening.  Harry has sent word, he means to attack well into the night, much after the dark has crept out from the water.  It is the perfect advantage.”  Mycroft seemed to be ignoring the human frailty for the moment, his all-seeing eyes carefully avoiding the touchy subject of Sherlock’s broken tone, skimming the emotions neither wanted touched upon.  “You would do well to be prepared upon arrival, little brother.”      

“When did he make contact?” It wasn’t that he cared all that much when it had happened, as much that it had actually happened.  Harry was more than just some half-witted captain that could be moved like a pawn beneath his and his brother’s far-reaching hands. Harry was King and on top of that, was someone even Mycroft admired. “Certainly I would have heard if we’d made contact with The Queen’s Pride?  Not even I sleep that deeply, injured or not.  The ship is massive.”    
  
“While you were sleeping, of course, a long boat arrived.  You’re still injured and recovering so I hardly hold you responsible for not noticing it or the messengers.  Do not forget that or you’ll be no good to anyone, least of all yourself and John.”  Mycroft smirked lightly before it was gone again, his posture sliding gently into itself as he stood from his chair, his grace and poise regal as always.  “Don’t make me order you.”    
  
Sherlock couldn’t find it within him to smirk at such a ballsy move, not even when it came from someone as refined as Mycroft was and always had been.  The situation was too dire, even for his tastes, and despite his elder brother’s efforts, he could not find it within himself to do much more than wallow in his regret.  Regret for giving up John when in reality he’d only given up the innocent creature on top of his crew’s already present death sentence.  They would be hanged before the Game ran its course, strung high from the gallows for all to see as warnings to all passing into Port Royal.  Even if the distraction and rescue were to happen tonight as planned, the crew would be without a ship and have an injured Captain, one that planning for his own death in secret.  Nothing would even be the same now, his ship nothing but burning ruins out in the sea, his will to lead severely damaged, a broken body and a plagued mind.    
  
It wouldn’t have mattered in the long run, they were going to die anyway...but John could have been saved.    
  
Sherlock wretched his eyes away from the wooden panels that made up the ceiling, the cool icy stare finding the wall opposite of where Mycroft had been sitting moments prior, the chilly gaze boring holes through it by sheer force of will. The thought struck him almost violently, much like a sharp blow to the head or torso, the violence of it all hardly comparing to the sudden blossoming of pain he experienced.  Sherlock must had jostled his stitches, yes, and that’s where the pain came from...not the thought that Sherlock and his damned borrowed time had sealed the fate of a beauty the world would never know again.  No wonder the males of the species always stayed hidden, separate from their female counter parts, locked away from the cruelty of the world.  If this happened and they died as such it was any wonder they persisted at all.    
  
The burning sensation was building behind his eyes, Sherlock could feel it, along with the heavy weight settling in his stomach and heart.  The weight had been there for years, really, the death of his parents a stone dragging at him long before he had known what it truly was, but now it was becoming unbearable. He’d carried it for a long time and over that time had become used to the crushing presence, adjusting himself for carrying the heavy burden and all that it entailed.  It was why he developed the metal casings he placed about himself, shields to keep other out, but also to distract from the broken center that nested in broken glass and jagged wounds.  Now it was only growing larger, crushing more, and Sherlock had no choice but to accept it.  
  
Mycroft’s tapping steps were hardly noticeable as Sherlock wallowed in his misery. Mycroft walked with as much force has he always had.  It hurt him, both as an elder brother and as a knowledgeable man, that his brother was so broken, so jaded of life that he could hardly function in the real world.  It had hurt him when he had had to leave England after discovering the true reason their parents were dead and it hurt him when Sherlock had left England to follow him, just as it hurt him now that Sherlock was wounded with something so black that it was out of his power to heal it.  If there was one thing that Mycroft Holmes truly detested, it was the feeling of powerless and out of control, to be completely ineffective, and have to sit by and watch as life tore away at his younger sibling in great chunks before hurling his remains to the sharks.  It pained him in ways that Sherlock could never possibly know.    
  
When his presence finally registered with Sherlock, Mycroft could hardly contain his worry at what he saw.  If the eyes truly were the windows to the soul, Sherlock’s eyes were thrown open wide to show the entirety of his soul, all his pain and anger and sadness on display for anyone observant to see.  It both startled Mycroft and confirmed what he had already been suspecting, that Sherlock was at the end of his journey, and that the Game he was playing was intended to be an End Game.  Someone would lose, finally slip off the precipice and into the darkness that waited hungrily below for their very souls.    
  
Mycroft wasn’t sure that Moriarty even had a soul, but regardless he wouldn’t let that fate happen to his only remaining family.    
  
His decision was only made stronger when Sherlock’s eyes met his own, the tears boiling there beneath the surface finally pouring up and out, welling down his angular face in such a way that cannot be merely described, only seen.  It was a strange sense of pained beauty really, a sight that not many would ever see in their lifetimes, and came from a road bathed in blood and filled with anguish.  Mycroft wished that Sherlock had never been put on such a road, but regret was hardly worth his time.  Now he had to worry about keeping Sherlock alive, keeping Sherlock sane and in the present.  It would do them both no good if they were to see the outcome of this battle alive, only to find out later that Sherlock had never really survived at all and had found the option given to him by the memories he had of their Maternal Grandmother.  He didn’t know if he could survive himself if he were to come into a room that held the cooling shell that had once housed such a bright and vivid soul, one that had been his brother before all this had started.  And the thought of having to made him reach for his brother, embracing him in a hug they hadn’t shared since Sherlock had been little and grieving their parent’s deaths.    
  
“I always tried to protect you, you know, keep you safe, blanketed from the world.”  Mycroft said softly, holding his brother tightly, his own armor cracked in a way that was undetectable to others, but that Sherlock could see clearly.  Oh so clearly.  “Father did not even have to say the words, say that it was my responsibility, but I always knew.  I feel like I failed you, Sherlock.  That I have always failed you and that I keep on failing.  Tell me, instruct me on how to help you...please?”  
  
Sherlock gave a choked sob into Mycroft shoulder.     
  
“Tell me how to make this better, Sherlock.”  Mycroft could only continue, and though he felt the twinge deep within his chest, the one that he had felt every time he saw Sherlock unhappy or unresponsive to something, he felt nothing more.  He didn’t even know if he could feel anything more.  “I cannot help you if you do not let me in.  Tell me and I will go to war with Moriarty, take on King and Country for you.  We all would, Sherlock, you know this to be true.  You have but give the word.”    
  
And as if some redemption had been offered to him, Sherlock pulled away, eyes red and wet with tears, but his face and eyes set hard, his soul once again calmed and controlled.  But the passion was still there, burning brightly in the blue depths, and Mycroft knew then what his answer would be.  Sherlock would lead them into Hell...and Mycroft would go willingly. He always would.  He would give anything for Sherlock, to Sherlock, even his very soul.  That was what big brothers were meant to do, and though the eldest Holmes was nearly incapable of love for others, it did not mean that his love for Sherlock had gone cold from years of being pushed under the icy waters.  He would always love his brother more than he loved himself.    
  
“Then let us go to war, Mycroft.”  Sherlock gave a sharp, humorless laugh.  “I have a date with the Devil and he’s itching to dance.”    
  
“Well then, let us not keep him waiting, hm?”


	15. Saturday Night At Sea

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> One of my favorite pictures of Lara Pulver Plus My Drawing:
> 
> http:// i2.listal.com/ image/ 2121444/ 600full-lara-pulver. jpg   
> http:// maddhatter13. deviantart. com/#/ d4uglja

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> The West Indies are what are now The Bahamas and part of the Turks and Caicos Islands. I couldn’t find anything that said Cuba wasn’t called Cuba, so I left it at that, but I know the West Indies were a lot of everything else. Whitecap Bay, Mermaid Cove, and Mermaid Isles are all located in the remote parts of The Bahamas according to my pitiful map skills, and as far as I could tell, may be true for the POTC movies as well. (But they may have also landed somewhere in Florida, because Ponce de Leon landed there as well before his death.) But I don’t know for sure because the maps there are rubbish. I’m pretty sure it is an island off the coast of Florida and North of Cuba though.
> 
> And that’s the photo I based her appearance off of in this chapter. I’m sure you can figure out where she is as Irene here in the story, I tried to make it pretty obvious, even though I said I might not include her during the beginning. She decided she wanted in anyways on the action. You know how she is. I also included a picture I drew of my own head-image of her, so enjoy!

Port Royal was crafted on a complexity that -to this day- still eludes most sailors.   
  
Commandant Moriarty, though however smart he may be (and he was smart, very, very smart), still only probably knew about half of all the things that made such a port run the way it did and how it was built.  He hardly claimed to be an expert on those who ran the military stronghold that rested on the main part of the land where harbor was laid, but when it came down to it, he did know how to manipulate those around him to an infinite degree.  It was one of the many reasons Sherlock had claimed him a spider sitting at the center of his dexterous web, sitting and merely having to tap lightly on certain strands to get his way, fixated at the center of all that was unholy.  Sherlock had of course been raving at the time while they did battle -their cutlasses had never sung a more glorious song together or apart- the thrill of the fight spurring his mouth in ways it normally wouldn’t work, but he’d said it none-the-less.  He’d spat it out with such fierce, burning hatred that the Commandant had feared he might combust all on his own.    
  
Far be it from Jim Moriarty to deny such a gratuitous description of him, either.    
  
He was hardly ungrateful.     
  
So he could stand to feel a bit smug when they made port at last, the rigorous journey far worth it to be back at destination before night fall, an achievement for any ship in the fleet, let alone the world.  He’d pressed The Westwood and her crew in ways he hadn’t before but it had all been well worth it.  Sherlock’s crew would be dealt with by the proper authorities, the Merman would be cleaned up and his water in the tub changed before they would once again depart, and once they’d left all the greater worries would be dealt with by others.  His hands would be clean.  The plan had never been to linger in the harbor longer than necessary to restock supplies, anyways; barrels and crew were rounded up and waiting for them to disembark the pirates off ship and then they would return once more to the sea.  From here he planned on heading North past Cuba, cutting between Hispanola and the mighty isle, their destination laying somewhere off the outer edges of The West Indies.  Just below the waiting coast of what was now claimed as Spanish Florida, a rubbish name if he’d ever heard one.  
  
Though he hardly worried about the Spanish or the French ambushing the ship in this case, even if a majority of the islands belonged to them now and days.  One sleek British Ship would hardly be noticed as it skimmed into their waters in search of the three famed spots said to were said to house Mermaids.  Or what he thought had only housed Mermaids...because really, who knew that there was a male counterpart to the mythical race of fish women?  There were hardly any stories of them, mostly made up in jest simply because one sailor wished to one up another in a drunken tavern story, and even the ones that had some deep rooted truth were more of less based on the females encountered out at sea.  And there were plenty of those stories out there.  He knew first hand that there were many.      
  
Tales of ravenous beauties the likes of which mere mortals have never seen on land, the bodies of delicate maidens that were want naked in the waters and waiting for a good sailor man to betroth themselves too. Glimmering gems and precious stones adorning their bodies in mass quantities just waiting for someone to bestow them upon. Some of the stories seemed to think the fishy maidens were protective of sailors and that their kiss would prevent a man from drowning if he were tossed overboard while at sea.  Others, the darker tales that plagued any subject, said that they lured men into the water with their siren voices and then drowned them for fun or for sustenance.  Moriarty had seen the results of wrecked ships upon rocks that most sailors would never get anywhere near too unless something had drawn them in, and with the disturbing lack of bodies in the wake of carnage such as that, it was hard to argue.  He was willing to toss it up to something unnatural for the most part, though never claiming such a thing outright.  It wasn’t until much later in his sea faring career that he first saw one of them.    
  
She’d been sitting on the rocks of a small jutting isle just around the tip of cuba, her long dark hair pooled about her body in glistening waves, the strands caught in the ocean breeze.  He’d spotted her through his telescope from the Bird’s Nest -when he was still working his way through the ranks- and had instantly become enamored with her.  She was gorgeous, plain and simple: long flowing hair and a lithe, delicate torso gleaming in the sunlight, the pale skin contrasted sharply with the dark colored eyes and the full softness of her mouth when she turned in his direction.  He had only thought her a beautiful trapped woman at first, until the ship drew closer to the rocks and he caught sight of the gleaming scaled tail, dyed a delicate pale blue as it worked its way up her body and around much of the torso both hidden and unhidden by hair.  The gills too had been shut, hidden by the faint color of them and the mass of jewelry and shells that adorned her body, pale hands working a large shell through her hair like a comb, completely oblivious to those who drew nearer to her with every passing moment.  She had been beautiful, sitting there in the sun, and not even he could deny such a thing.    
  
At that moment he had wanted nothing more than to desert his post and swim to her, the desire blooming in his chest heartily until one of the elder crew members had picked up a musket and fired at her without hesitation.  Of course they’d been taking too wide a berth around the rocks to actually hit her, but the noise seemed to just as good of a job, as she startled and quickly dove back beneath the waters, releasing him from her spell.  (One that he hadn’t even been aware he’d been placed under until it had been broken.)  Sea magic was like that, the same man had claimed later when they were all off duty, huddled in their bunks and talking about the day’s excitement with one another.  Cabbie -a nickname Jim was sure from his earlier career, though no one seemed to know the man’s true Christian name- spoke of sirens and watery deaths unfit for even criminals, which both frightened and intrigued a younger version of him to no end.  He’d pestered the man daily about it until Cabbie had shared every bit of information with him that he knew, including the bit that claimed eating one of the sirens would grant an extended life.    
  
Later when Cabbie was shot during a run against the Spanish, he told Moriarty of the book he kept of the sea witches tucked beneath the lining of his small sea chest down below in quarters.  As he lay dying he willed his remaining possessions over to the up and coming cabin boy, determined that someone with some sense carry on telling others to not be fooled by the beauty.  Jim had falsely promised to not chase after them anymore and only to warn others of the dangers, but later went on to return to the same rocky isle in search of her once he became Captain some years later.  He’d not seen her again since that first fateful encounter which had only left him hungry and aching for more.  That very need had driven part of his career until he’d met Sherlock Holmes, and Jim’s very being had combined the chilliness of the kindred mind in Sherlock and the desire for the unknown of Mermaids into one delirious need that ravaged his remaining soul.  It was what made him who he was, practically, and he hadn’t been lying to Sherlock when he had told him he wanted him.    
  
James Moriarty had always been out for blood.    
  
And now he’d gotten everything he’d ever hoped for all wrapped up into one deliciously devious package.  When he’d first heard the rumors of Sherlock entertaining the court of a Mermaid he had thought them just that, rumors.  As they persisted and grew he had let his dark desires and hopes breed within him until even he could hardly restrain himself, a feat indeed.  Upon seeing that everything said had been true, that Sherlock indeed had a Clutch worn proudly about his neck -once he’d actually tracked him down and over-taken him and his ship- he had allowed himself to relax the ever present mask and dip into the waters of success.  They had tasted sweet for the moment he had drunk them in, and with an off thought he wondered if Sherlock’s Mermaid was as beautiful as the one he’d seen all those years ago.  It was before he’d actually seen the legendary beast up close of course, something within him splintering slightly when he discovered a male in the place of the female who could possibly have been the same one he’d seen all those years ago.  It had felt like a betrayal somehow, a swift stab to the gut, and even now the pain flared uselessly within his belly.    
  
But he’d quickly regained composure, compensating for sudden shock of a John instead of an Irene, whom he had been searching for since his cabin boy days.  He had no romantic interests in her, of course, the Mermaid Irene.  He doubted truly that he could love anyone else besides himself and that brain of Sherlock Holmes’, and that was only if one could actually call that love.  But it was what she was, what she had been, what she stood for and represented beautifully that so got his attention.  An ever-youthful life spent frolicking about the sea in search of unknown or lost treasures, never fearing a swift death like humans so did.  Never having to take on mantles or responsibilities that plagued his life since the day his parents had died.  A mysterious beauty that was closer with the world than he ever could be, at one with the sea.  He wanted that, still wanted it even now that he had the creature, and by God he would have it.    
  
No one could persuade him not to sacrifice Sherlock’s pet.    
  
“Captain, all the prisoners have been traded out and supplies have been restocked.  The Merman is bound in irons but still on the main deck, though out of the sight of prying eyes.”  Commander Moran reported dutifully, eyes hooded and as dark as the depths of Hell themselves.  He was enjoying this, Moriarty knew, and would be rewarded for his loyalties.  “We are ready to make way once more.”    
  
“Then let us weigh anchor, Commander.”  He smiled and headed back to the railing where the stairs would take him on deck.  “And make to sea.”    
  
“Our headings, Captain?”  Moran sounded curious to Moriarty’s well trained ears, the slight glimpse of curiosity bathed in intent flickering just beneath the surface.  “Where are we to make port next?”    
  
“Why, The Mermaid Isles.”  He replied with a snicker.  “Of course!”    
  
\--  
  
The sun had long since sank beneath the horizon when The Minor Imposition at last pulled to a bright harbor, the ship and her crew sticking to the clinging sea shadows to await further orders.  Sherlock and Mycroft had made their way on deck to prepare strategies long ago, and were now dressed and awaiting the arrival of the other major players.  Mycroft had said that Harry - The Pirate Admiral Palace of The Queen’s Pride- was to be joining us shortly, and that they should be patient in their waiting.  Sherlock could do no such thing, not with The Westwood long since gone, his crew in irons to be hung at the gallows like decorations for a mad crowd, John still at the hands of the enemy.  If anything, he was more restless than usual, a fact that his brother had pointed out in some semblance of humor not ten minutes prior.  And while Mycroft seemed to find it amusing, Sherlock was finding it anything but.    
  
A normally stropy mood quickly deteriorated into one of pure malice and retaliation.  
  
Plans that would normally hold his entire attention were suddenly thrown to the side, the small details which he would so normally flourish at lost in the suddenness of his some-what violent mood swing.  He’d taken to standing or pacing now, wishing upon all else to have his skull back so that he could speak with it, his brother eyeing him from his seated position not five feet away.  But Mycroft wasn’t saying anything, and for that Mycroft was glad.  He had no intention of fighting with his brother over his distraction, Sherlock just didn’t have the emotional fortitude in him right now.  There were so many other things to worry about, to do, to plan, to see carried out even, that there was hardly any room for himself at all.  He felt crowded in his own brain, much to his horror, and the place once thought to be a genuine comfort and retreat was suddenly a prison that over-filled with dreadful scenarios and painful images of death, destruction, and loss.    
  
How in the world was he meant to work when his brain felt like it was oddly two sizes too small for him now?  The pounding, squeezing sensation of pain slowly working its way up from his shoulders and neck and from between his eyes, robbing him of whatever was left of his processing power.  Sherlock wasn’t doing himself any favors, he knew, by worrying and letting his emotions get a hold of him like this, but it didn’t seem to matter to his intellect.  All it cared about was repeating the scene of Moriarty and Moran dragging off his crew and a crying John before fast-forwarding to the mass hanging scheduled for tomorrow afternoon and a half-eaten carcass with distinct blue eyes.  It was beginning to become all consuming now, and Sherlock worried that if he couldn’t silence it, that he would soon lose all will to actually fight the outcomes that played before his mind’s eye.    
  
“Caring is not always an advantage, Sherlock.”  Mycroft said as he sipped at the saucer his first mate Anthea had brought silently some moments before, his eyes trained carefully on Sherlock now, watching.  “And it is often in our favor not to do so.  Our minds do not work the way other’s do.  They are not programmed for the emotionality that most others are subjected too and indeed cannot handle it.  It is why I sense your turmoil from  here.”    
  
“And what do you know of it, Mycroft?  Did you lose your favorite sweets recipe from the cook’s galley?” He hadn’t meant it to sound so hateful, so absolutely horrid to his brother.  He just didn’t know how else to cope, and snark had always kept him protected in the past.  “I sincerely doubt you know what I’m going through at the moment.”    
  
“On the contrary, I know exactly what you’re going through.” Mycroft replied tartly, a frown marring the space between his eyebrows, the flesh creasing in a familiar place.  “However unlikely it may seem.”  
  
“And how do you know anything?” Sherlock’s reply was hot and demanding, his cool running for the sea just as the breeze did.  “How could you possibly know the guilt, the sheer pain of it all?”    
  
“How could I not know, Sherlock?  You were too  young to remember losing Mother and Father the way I do!” Mycroft lost what his reign on his emotions and temper, the misstep making the well-placed mask crack ever so slightly so that Sherlock caught a glimpse of beneath.  “You didn’t have to receive missives that explained blandly your beloved family was dead, that your younger brother was assumed dead as well!  Lost at sea to a band of murdering sailors!”    
  
“No, I had the pleasure to experience first hand, Mycroft!” It would not come to physical blows, Sherlock promised himself, no matter now much his temper flared.  They had so rarely resorted to such vulgarity.  “As you seem to forget, I was there when our ship went down!  I witnessed Mother’s frantic scrambling to try and keep us safe, her screams as the ship was torn and too and she was thrown from me!”  
  
“True, but instead I had to experience the days it took to find you amongst the wreckage, Sherlock!  Nearly a week of searching for you in the water without hope for you!  That you had ended up like the rest of the crew...” The elder’s breath hitched slightly as he clamped his mouth shut, turning his back and pacing away before returning, his eyes gleaming in a way that had nothing to do with anger.  “That I’d lost you as I had lost everything else.  But perhaps I did lose you there among the waves, for I never really got you back.”    
  
“Oh what are you babbling about now, Mycroft?  Your punitive melancholy is hardly worth any real experience I’ve had, and you hardly lost me.  I’m here now, aren’t I?”  Mycroft’s statement of concern was waved off with one hand, Sherlock’s back nearly turned to him now.  “Though for how much longer I am unsure.”    
  
“Do not say that, Sherlock.  You are not lost now.”  Mycroft’s voice took on an airy tone, the one that Sherlock knew to be used when Mycroft was tired of fighting a pointless battle with him.  It wasn’t defeat and it wasn’t victory, it was resignation.  “Not like you were then.”    
  
“What your brother means to say, Sherly, is that although you were recovered alive from the wreck of the disaster that claimed your parents to the sea, you never really were the same afterwards.”  A most familiar voice said from somewhere near the stairs, both Holmes brothers whirling around to meet the man who had spoken then.  “You did not speak to anyone for weeks afterwards, Mycroft has told me in detail.  That you sat alone in your room, or outside, or at the beach and watched the horizon in complete solitude and how very unlike yourself the behavior was.”    
  
“Admiral...” Mycroft said, removing his plumed hat and taking a well-practiced bow. His posture screaming respect and deep running admiration.  “It is good of you to join us on such short notice.  We rather need your help with this one, I’m afraid.”    
  
“Mycroft, of course I’d come.  You two are close to me, it’d be a shame to let someone lay claim to you without even putting up a token resistance.”  Harry said happily, nodding to Mycroft before giving him a hearty hand-shake and a tight clasp on the shoulder that spoke volumes to their close relationship.  “And when I heard that my boys are into all sorts of trouble I just couldn’t resist.  It has been so long since my ship and crew were given a good airing.”    
  
Both of the older men chuckled at the ill-fated joke, Sherlock continuing to glare daggers at his brother and even a few at Harry as he turned his back on both.  It was obnoxious to still be treated like the burden little brother, the grown ups talking around him like he couldn’t understand, and he always hated it when his brother tried to pull it.  But Harry was always far more observant than anyone gave him credit for, even Sherlock, and upon seeing the look of deep distress in him, his entire demeanor seemed to shift.  He quickly went from the carefree elderly man in the odd-patterned coat to the true Pirate King and Admiral that he was.  His eyes sharpened to the intimidating hawk-like vision that would give him the edge he needed to reign over the Pirate Court, his already formidable height seeming to increase as his shoulders bolded his profile.  He easily transformed from the non-assuming and friendly sea faring Harry to Admiral Palace, King of the Pirate’s Court and ruler of most of the Man-O-Wars of the Caribbean Sea.   
  
And once Admiral Palace was standing before you, it was not a smart idea to go about talking back or making a fuss.  Palace was an Old Salt, aft all, and worth more than his whole ship’s weight in gold.  Smart, cunning, and ruthless when angered, he was any sailor’s -pirate or otherwise- worse nightmare when challenged.  And though he didn’t often deal out bloody punishment, preferring to talk things out like true gentlemen, he had once keelhauled a man for threatening the lives of his crew while attempting to blackmail him.  The man in question, a Captain Sebastian Wilkes, had claim to Letters of Marque that he was supposed to turn over to another captain in exchange for safe passage to Port Royal.  Instead he’d sought out a crew at random without background, claiming the papers were for their ship, and then turned upon them in a pitiful attempt to manipulate a crew he thought beneath him before claiming the vessel for his own.  He hadn’t known at the time who’s ship he had asked for passage from, and without inquiry as to their destination or inclinations, he had made to strike.  Admiral Palace hadn’t taken kindly to the actions.    
  
Sebastian Wilkes had been strung up on the gibbet at Port Royal several days later, keelhauled and hardly recognizable.    
  
But to Sherlock he had always been a source of inspiration, and even though Mycroft had been taught by Harry himself (mentored once he had defected from the British Royal Navy, Harry had found him wandering the Caribbean with a stolen ship and a half-dead crew) both of the Holmes brothers held him in the highest of regards.  His cunning was legendary, as were his battle tactics and the ability to call upon any pirate vessel in the vicinity to his side or aide.  And even Sherlock aspired to be like him, not for his power or reach, but for his intellect, control, and compassion.  (Though he’d never tell anyone about the last of his aspirations.)  Mycroft too wished for these things, and had made himself into quite the pirate Captain in order to prove his worth and join the Inner Court.  Harry later claimed that nothing made him more proud than to see the two young men trying to keep up with his expectations.    
  
“I see you’re still wearing that confounded coat, Sherlock.”  Harry was always smiling even when he was in his Admiral persona, Sherlock thought.  Before he’d known Harry like he did now, he had picked up on the fact that the man was generous and caring, and had respected him for it.  “I’m both impressed and flattered that you’d take to the thing so well and keep it for so long.  I haven’t seen you for far too long.”    
  
“Luckily my brother and his crew were able to salvage it from the wreckage of the ship.  I had feared that it was lost to the sea upon waking, as I was not wearing it on deck when Moriarty saw fit to sink my ship.”  Sherlock didn’t really smile, but his eyes always held this glow that was more than enough to express his happiness to those who knew him well.  It was both a reply to Harry and an indirect compliment to his brother, which was the only sort of compliment he’d give.  “It was a bit worse for wear, but one of Mycroft’s crew mended it before setting it to dry.  It is still damp, but no worse for wear.”    
  
Harry chuckled.    
  
“I see, well that’s wonderful.  But I hear that you’re having a bit of a problem with a man by the name of James Moriarty.  Is there any truth to that?”  Sherlock knew that he was already informed on the situation, but that he wanted to hear it from him in Sherlock’s own words.  “I don’t know what you need unless you say so.”    
  
“You already know the parameters, Harry.”  Sherlock wasn’t sure what more he could say to add to the situation, already knowing that his brother had given all the details and findings while he was unconscious.  He also knew that Harry was aware of his injury.  “I’m not sure what else you want me to say.”    
  
“Why don’t you just start at the beginning, Sherlock?”  Admiral Palace strode to Mycroft’s vacant chair and sat down gracefully, picking up a second cup of tea that had suddenly appeared on the silver tray.  “We have plenty of time.”    
  
Somewhere off on shore, at the Port Royal Naval Base, an explosion rang out.    
  
“Oh?  I had thought we would join the fray?”  Sherlock said as he and Mycroft moved to join Harry at the small table, two other chairs being placed by members of Mycroft’s crew.  “Is this not true, then?”    
  
“I thought we’d just allow the others to do the heavy work and then we’d row out to meet your crew.”  Harry smirked, his plan leaking through in the sparkle of intelligence found in his eyes.  “Sugar?”    
  
“Two, please.”


	16. The Golden Vanity

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Elder brother Sherrinford appears, so surprise! I have no intentions of dragging up Enola Holmes though, which is a fan creation mostly by another author who later publishes their work. And although I have no really inclination for or against her, I don’t really much want to worry about writing her into this story. Sherrinford, however, is pretty useful and is later to have been thought ideally some-what canon due to his taking over the estate (one of Squires, as Sherlock has said before) so that Mycroft and Sherlock could run amuck elsewhere. Also, Sherrinford was originally the name thought up by Arthur Conan Doyle for Sherlock Holmes, which was later scrapped in favor of Sherlock.

Admiral Palace, like most of the higher ups in the Pirate Court, didn’t overly care to get his hands directly dirty with such lowly acts of violence such as the lot going on at that very moment in Port Royal.  Instead, like Sherlock’s insufferable brother, he preferred to allow his crew and those lower on the food chain to do his dirty work and bidding for him, his expert plans executed without him being there in person.  It was for this reason that the three of them were sipping tea on the deck of Mycroft’s ship instead of actually being in bay at Port Royal searching for his crew personally, and it was driving Sherlock mad with anticipation and boredom.  But even if he’d wanted to go in shore to look for them, Sherlock was positive that neither of the older men in his company would allow for him to leave due to the worries they held, as well as the danger that the government officials posed once he stepped foot onto official British soil.    
  
“Fear will eat you alive.”  His father had once told the three of them, for Sherlock had two elder brothers before him, while they had sat with him in his study back at the house in England.  “If you let it, my boys.  You must not allow your mind to be overrun with dread or unkempt fear, for it you do, it will play tricks upon you and drive you to unsupported conclusions.  You must not let it rule you.”    
  
Mycroft, the middle child then and not well beyond the age of twelve, had merely snorted his assent, waving it off from his seat beside Sherrinford and the much younger Sherlock on the Chesterfield in Father’s study.  This had been when they were still back in England, of course, long before the dreaded attack on Holmes’ ship that had lead to Mycroft and Sherlock’s orphanage.  Sherlock could just barely remember it, having only been roughly around age five at the time, and impatient as a cornered animal forced into a tight space.  He didn’t remember the way his Father had looked at them until much later at life, and more specifically, how Father had looked at their eldest brother and Sydney Siger’s eldest son, a morose expression pinched with pain and sadness.  Sherlock had been too young at the time to know what he knew now...that his brother Sherrinford had been dying.    
  
Too young and too scared of what was to come before him, Sherrinford had listened.  
  
Of course everyone knew of the brave and corrupted Mycroft Holmes, thought-eldest son of legendary Admiral Sydney Siger Holmes, but few knew of their true eldest son, Sherrinford Holmes, heir to the Holmes Lineage.  Sherrinford had always been a sweet, quiet boy, modest and kind in ways that his younger brothers knew nothing of, more like their Mummy’s soul than anything from Father’s side of the gene pool.  He had been long in limbs and thin like their Mummy had been as well, but could hold a presence in a silent room none-the-less when he wished too.  He had more of Mother’s side in looks, appearance, and disposition, the lean build with unruly dark curls that he kept somewhat longer than society approved of, but held Father’s height and quiet presence, as well as his staggering dark eyes and ability to negotiate even the tensest of situations.  He had always been calm and helpful in an argument between him and Mycroft, Sherlock remembered, when on the rare occasion that it happened and they fought over something petty.  He was also incredibly bright, which in the Holmes household, was not something said so lightly.  And if he were still alive, Sherlock had no doubt that the eldest Holmes brother would have put both of his younger ones to shame in any act of intelligent thought.    
  
But Sherlock and Mycroft hadn’t known that Sherrinford had been struck with an ailment that would slowly steal the light from his eyes, and they had not known that Sherrinford faced death and knew that he was doing so.  They were selfish children, after all, ones that no one had saw fit to explain death and dying to or even that their eldest brother was walking a frozen, lonely path of destiny on his own.  They hadn’t known for close to four years that something was wrong in their home and family, and by then it had been far too late to take back the days spent.  Neither Sherlock, nor Mycroft, nor Mummy or Father could reverse the damage that Sherrinford had woken up with one day and had never quite been able to outrun, struck with a disease unlike any the doctor’s had ever seen before.  And no one could tell Sherlock truthfully that his eldest brother, whom he loved deeply and without question, was nearing his end.    
  
As those few years had blinked by for the child version of himself, Sherlock could only dimly remembered watching Sherrinford become weaker and weaker, though then he had thought it laziness instead of the fatigue it truly was.  He remembered Sherrinford having to rest more often than not and his appetite dwindling every day that he saw, and thinking that his eldest brother was lucky to be able to take naps when he wanted too or that Sherrinford was being picky when he didn’t eat even a bite of their cook’s specialty desert pudding.  He’d throw tantrums when Sherrinford hadn’t been able to go out into the yard and play with him or take him exploring around the pond like he wanted.  He’d cry and flail and generally present himself as a menace until his brother would give that sad little smile and agree to whatever plan Sherlock had thought up this time.    
  
It never struck odd with Sherlock’s childhood mind that Sherrinford should be off in the world, at university, at work, and not living at home tending to his fussy younger siblings.  There was no sense of wrongness in his demure presence as they strolled through the house or sat in the study where Sherrinford would read to him and Mycroft, whenever Mycroft would cease to be stuck up and revert -if only for a while- to the innocent boy that he should be.  Nothing amiss to a pack of brothers that were closer to one another than many other siblings, despite the significant age gap between all of them.  Not until Sherlock had woken in the morning to find a corpse where his brother had been resting only the night before.    
  
Sherrinford had always been sickly, he would later come to realize, and had died long before his time at the young age of 19 from long term illness.  The doctors were always kept in secret, their visits covered with fibs and lies of going to visit friends or distant family and that it would only bore the younger Sherlock and Mycroft to tag along.  Sherlock had assumed that Mycroft had figured it out sooner than he had, because near the last few months Mycroft had become quiet and resigned even though he was quite the spit-fire youngster and always had been.  He had sat with Sherrinford late into the night when Sherlock had been forced to go to bed, but when he was sure that even Mycroft had left Sherrinford’s room, he had snuck down the hall to sleep with his beloved elder brother, much as he had always done.     
  
He had never been as scared as he was when he woke to find his brother had passed sometime in the night, the much elder boy cool to the touch where Sherlock was burrowed to his chest. He had lain in the dawn light with his dead brother and clutched at his night shirt, crying silently for him to wake up and to take him to the pond where he was supposed to teach him to swim like he’d promised the day before, and the day before that, even though Sherlock knew Sherrinford hadn’t left his bed in weeks.  It was how his Father had found them, Mummy following behind him silently at first, vocal later, tears trailing down her face when she realized what had happened in the dark.  Even though Sherlock didn’t quite understand what it had meant when they’d pried him away, he knew that he could never be more scared in his life than he was in the moment he saw Sherrinford’s blank eyes and listless gaze.  He never told anyone -not even Mycroft- of Sherrinford’s eyes or how they still haunted him to this day, often making sleep eluding and difficult to come by.    
  
And ever since then Sherlock had always taken on a sort of emotional detachment from those who lived around him, a means of protecting himself from the hurt that would come with their deaths.  Protection for when Sherrinford was taken away and buried, his eyes burning with tears for nearly the last time in ages, until his parents’ deaths two or so years later once he’d been recovered from the sea.  Sherlock had withdrawn from those around him, including his other beloved brother Mycroft, who had left shortly after their elder brother’s funeral for his first post aboard a British Royal Ship at the age of 16, soon to become a full Captain at the age of 18 himself, running as fast as the sea could take him from the pain and loss their family endured, building walls himself to keep others -including Sherlock- out.    
  
It was why they never ever spoke of Sherrinford, to anyone really, least of all themselves.  It let them keep the pain buried deep within them, the festering pain and hurt being kept a bay with the make-shift bandages that denial lent them.  But it also allowed them to continue on with their lives, even though Sherlock rarely spoke to anyone anymore, and despite his Mummy’s smiles and laughter, there was always the crinkling of emotional agony inside her eyes.  Explorative days spent on a beach somewhere in the British Isles that would one day serve as his Mind Palace soon took up most of Sherlock’s attention, and he stashed the agony of loss away for another day that all too soon to come.  Because in the short span of only three years, Sherlock lost not only his elder brother, but also his mother and father to tragic deaths, leaving him and Mycroft alone in a very unforgiving world.  It was only then that Sherlock truly understood what death meant.    
  
“Do not fret so, Sherlock.”  Mycroft’s voice snapped Sherlock out of his painful musing, the trip down the darkened lane of memories rapidly disappearing before his eyes as the world came back into focus around him.  “Your crew will be released swiftly, I’m sure.  Our crews are not the only ones up to the task of breaking out a handful of your crew at a time, you know.”    
  
“Indeed not!”  Admiral Palace said, his jovial voice carrying in the evening wind slightly as he poured himself yet another cup of tea.  “A certain Captain Angelo has been inquiring after your well-being, Sherlock, and upon hearing about your plight and my decision to help out, he volunteered himself and The Jailbird for duty.  He, along with a Captain Soo Lin Yao and The Bright Body, are also ashore as we speak to help spring your crew from their cells.”    
  
Sherlock relaxed a bit in relief, those familiar names something he could put stock into, wether he wished it or not.  Angelo had been helpful to him ever since he’d helped to release him from the gallows some years back, his petty theft sentences had landed him into deeper trouble when the authorities had discovered who he truly was and just what sort of ship he ran.  Sherlock had been able to infiltrate and then spring all of the pirates being housed in the dismal port in Antigua, allowing safe and swift passage back to their ships instead of the death sentence they had been given.  Their noses hadn’t even been undone and removed until they were safely away from the harbor, Sherlock and Angelo laughing merrily over their near-death and ridiculous escape route.  The Jailbird’s Captain had then sworn a pledge to help Sherlock whenever he called upon him, wether it be a time of true need or not.  And Sherlock, duty bound, had agreed.    
  
Likewise, Soo Lin Yao had been a slave to the infamous Chinese Captain Shan of The Black Lotus, her rights to freedom rebuked when the ship she had been seeking passage on had been taken down by Shan’s formidable Naval vessel. They hadn’t made it far out of the imperial waters towards freedom when the un-remorseful Captain had nearly sunk the tiny ship they traveled on, forcing them to The Black Lotus if they wanted to live. Impressment had then forced her to serve the stern female Captain Shan for years before Sherlock had stumbled upon and done battle with the black-sailed ship, his attacks managing to free nearly half the imprisoned crew before he’d been driven off and forced to retreat with his human bounty.  Soo Lin Yao had been one of the very few who was capable of speaking the English language, and had explained their circumstances to Sherlock patiently and without fail.  She’d served as a beacon for her fellow prisoners and when it came time to drop them off at port, she had quite the following.  Many months later and she had herself a ship, the willing crew freed from The Black Lotus following her without waver.     
  
Both Captains felt indebted to him, he knew, and despite his protests that he didn’t require them to return any favors or do any sort of jobs for him, they both insisted that their honor required it.  So he’d told them to wait, wait for when then moment was right and their hearts told them that he truly needed their services.  Today was that day and their help was ready and willing to defend him and his crew.  If Sherlock was akin to feeling pride for others on a regular basis, he would realize he most definitely was feeling it now for all of those fighting under his name and cause.  Pride and perhaps a little bit of warmth.    
  
“Sir?” Anthea said from her spot near the stair case, her hands folded behind her back tightly in a semblance of control that she never seemed to break.  Her eyes were forwards, her appearance cool and collected.  “We’re ready to go ashore and assess the situation.”    
  
“Excellent.”  Mycroft chimed in, standing as Anthea made her way towards him, removing his coat from the back of his chair, helping him to slip it onto his shoulders and right it once he’d gotten it on properly.  “Sherlock, are you ready to get your crew back?  Sherlock?”    
  
But Sherlock was already half-way down the staircase when the question was posed, heedless of his injuries or persisting fatigue and his brother’s needless questions.    
  
It was time to retake his crew.      
  
\--  
  
Hours now from Port Royal, and the stubborn fish man was still refusing to give up the coordinates they would need to find the legendary Mermaid Isle, Mermaid Cove, or Whitecap Bay.  Hours now under Moriarty’s insistent questioning, being drug out of the tub for as long as he thought John could stand it before he’d succumb to the heat and dryness and was once again flung back into the shallow well of water.  John would lay there panting and partially submerged for as long as he could trying to regain his breath before he’d breech the water and do the same to his long tail, a pattern emerging in the wake of odd aquatic torture.  John never gave up anything more than his odd musical cries, either incapable of giving more or unwilling.  The Commandant thought it was the later, though even now he was having his doubts.  The Merman wasn’t even giving any sign that he understood him enough to know what it was he had been asking, let alone know how to reply to the demands.    
  
“Bring me the Horizon!”  It wasn’t a request, it was a demand, and Moriarty was making them without little thought to the repercussions of such demands.  He’d been making them of the increasingly agitated Merman for well over several hours now, eyes slitted and teeth bared in a mirror fashion to the beast’s own.  “You are supposed to be leading the way to the Mermaid Isles, you insufferable beast!  Now do what you’re meant to do!  Tell me how to get there!  Give me the coordinates!”    
  
The still tubbed Merman only moved in a tight circle around the perimeter of the tub and growled low in his throat, head only just peaking out of the top of the water where he was glaring and snarling at the Commandant.  His little trills and other such vocalizations were barely anything above hostile or threatening, all intentions clear that John most definitely didn’t care for either Moriarty or his crew and whatever it was that they wanted from him.  Well what a coincidence, the crew and Moran hardly cared for the Merman either.  (The crew regarding him like they would regard Mermaids, with superstition and hostility that was probably well justified going on the horrible noises John made when anyone got too near to him.)  Moran just hated that Moriarty was so obsessed with something that could possibly ruin the splendor of his brilliance and career and had no idea what in the world was being asked of it.  Not that the Commandant cared for such things anyways, he had a one track mind now.  There were coordinates in the Merman’s mind, and they wanted them.      
  
So Sebastian would stand back and watch his Captain closely and silently, as he was supposed to, ever seen but rarely heard unless spoken or asked for.  He would continue to execute orders to the lower ranks without question even when they hadn’t been expressly made, and he would continue to serve his Captain as best as he could.  Even if it meant sneaking around behind his back to pressure those who wouldn’t cooperate with demands.  He would make them cooperate.  He would make them bend and obey.    
  
“Give the Captain what he wants, or I’ll turn you into shoes.”  Moran threatened once Moriarty had stalked off in a rage, his childish shouts ringing along the deck as he walked, a knife displayed threateningly to John as the Commander glared at him.  “And I don’t make my threats lightly.  I really will turn you into a pair of boots for the Commandant to wear about proudly.  I still might after he grows tired and eats you.”  
  
John growled as if to say he knew as much, thank you, and that he’d kindly prefer if Moran would shove off or perhaps even fall overboard and die.  His eyes, those blue incandescent eyes, shining with renewed hatred and anger at the indignity of being contained in a bath tub, far from his beloved ocean.  He had tried to escape several times during the day until Moran had decided to finally chain the length of him to the thick wood of the Mizzen Mast that launched itself into the air near enough to be of use.  They’d tried it with his tail first, since it was dangerous to be left free to strike out at those who pasted too near, but the monster had easily wiggled its way out of those bonds and too near the sides of the ship for comfort.  Moran had resorted to placing the bands around his wrists, once again pinning those strong limbs in place with a short anchorage of chain, braced at the railing that branched from the stairs and other parts of the deck.  Even if he were to break those railings and free the length of chain situated there, he’d never get free from the main anchor to the Mizzen and the chain was not long enough to reach the sea.    
  
No matter what the Merman tried, or would try, he would not be free to the sea that easily.  He would not, could not, escape the Commandant’s clutches, Commander Moran wouldn’t allow for it.  What the Captain wanted Moran would provide.    
  
But it didn’t mean that the damn creature didn’t still try.    
  
For hours well into the night the rattling of the chain and the frustrated cries rang into the air, even long after most of the main crew had gone to bed, replaced in their roles by the night watch bare bones.  The straining sound of metal and wood alike was by now a familiar sound to those who hadn’t been aware of the Merman’s presence before now, though few were brave enough to face the creature’s wrath and approach the tub.  Moran had taken to being the one to put more water in the basin at regular intervals just because few would approach John on their own, regardless of orders, and though he was tired, he was hardly exhausted.  This wasn’t very demanding an action in the long run, after all, he’d been serving under James Moriarty for years now, and this hardly was a speck on the horizon...  
  
Moran sighed loudly, the blade he was sharpening singing sweetly.  
  
Somewhere bellow, in the Captain’s quarters, Moriarty was sitting at his desk, going through countless stacks of papers, orders, and supplies lists in an attempt to distance himself from the increasingly noisy problem that was located on the very roof of his quarters.  The squeals, squeaks, moans, groans, and general sounds caused by the weighty creature on the deck above was enough to drive even the most patient of men wild, and he was by no means a patient man.  If that creature didn’t shut its trap he’d forgo the stupid Game in favor of letting Moran skin the beast and then feating upon it while it was still alive.  Even if it would be breaking the very foundational rules he’d set up in order to play with his beloved Sherlock, not that the man could have survived the disaster that had sunk his ship to begin with.  It wouldn’t be cheating so much as disregarding the rules all together, and even with the beast dead, Jim was certain he could find the mythical isles on his own.    
  
Which reminded him, maybe the Merman’s affects had some clue as to what he was to be looking for?  After all, the crew had pulled a significant number of jewelry items off from around the beast’s neck when the drug it aboard, the precious stones and shells dotted liberally with gold and spanish coins.  But there had been one piece that had stuck out to Moriarty, one lonely, tiny glass bottle that was thin and long and corked with something other than the traditional wooden plug.  Whatever was sealing up this tiny vessel was hard and had an almost waxy feel to it, tiny particles of grit and sand trapped within the bluish substance that stuck out against the filmy sides of whatever resided within its hold.  It hadn’t been opened in quite a while, Moriarty thought, due to the age and relative pattern of wear that the bottle and the stopper had on it, so whatever was inside was old and of relative value to the Merman itself.    
  
That of course was enough to demand that Moriarty open it and claim whatever was inside for himself.  He was by nature a curious man...and there was no such thing as secrets while aboard his sea faring vessel.  If he had his way there wouldn’t be any such secrets kept from him in the world, but he didn’t have that sort of reach...yet.  
  
Moriarty took a small letter knife and dug into the seal.    
  
Once it had popped out with a semi-loud noise, Moriarty dug his somewhat tinnier hands into the opening in hopes of fishing whatever was inside out.  He could barely feel the edges of something that was probably paper tucked down into the bottle, desert dry and flaking about the edges, and just out of reach.  Which wasn’t that big of deal, really, since he had a pair of long tweezers that he often used when building replica models of ships he wanted to destroy or putting small explosive devices together.  Really, canons were good and all, but why bother with heavy, bulky artillery if one simple, easily hidden packet of gunpowder and metal with a long wick would easily do the job just as well?  He’d even developed the concept himself, based on what he’d seen explosive mortars and canon balls do when they struck artillery reserves just in shore during raids on Spanish harbors or other enemy outposts.    
  
So with the grace of a developed talent and a steady hand, Moriarty quickly divested the tiny bottle of its contents, pulling out several small pieces of paper that had all been rolled away and tucked together.  The outside layer was faded and worn with age, the once dark ink now smudged and smeared in places, the hand that of what could only be a child or a very uneducated man.  Several of the words had been misspelt and the sentences were splotchy but determined, and spoke of a British Naval Port destination.  There was no signature or name listed anywhere, so it was unclear why the Merman would have such a thing, but it hardly mattered.  Whatever it meant was something only the sea creature could tell him, and since it didn’t appear to speak anything but in musical or guttural tones, it wasn’t likely that he’d ever figure it out.    
  
The second piece of paper was similar to that of the first, well-worn paper of good stock rolled up neatly as the first had been, but instead of something being written on it, it had a small drawing done in charcoal of what could only be part of some ship somewhere.  It was also most likely done by a child’s hand, the small smudges seeming to indicate a smaller hand, but whoever had done them had an eye for the details.  The rigging, ropes, ballasts, and wooden grain were all captured perfectly within the rendering, if only a bit out of proportion. It was very good if indeed a child had done this, but it was hardly worth anything to Moriarty.    
  
But the last piece of parchment that had been rolled up and tucked inside the others wasn’t a piece of parchment at all, but instead the loose edges of canvas that most painters used for smaller portraits.  It had been carefully rolled up in the center due to the fact that it was larger than the pieces of paper that surrounded it, and probably also to help preserve the paints and inks that captured whomever was on the inside from whatever elemental exposure the Merman put it to before it had been sealed away inside the glass tube.  And though the canvas wasn’t anything spectacular or particularly special in anyway, it was the image forever captured on it that held such meaning for Jim Moriarty and anyone else who ever came into contact with the Merman.  Because the Commandant had always suspected that the fish people lived longer than human lives, but this...this almost confirmed it.    
  
Trapped forever within aging paint on the scroll of canvas was a family.  
  
A proud, tall Father, a docile, beautiful Mother, and three dark headed boys of varying ages, all crowded into the frame, their best frock coats and dress clothing worn for their ever immortalized image upon the canvas.  And best of all, Moriarty knew who was on this piece of canvas, knew without a doubt who was framed forever in his hands, kept fresh and lively by a Merman in passing.  Because there was only one way for the sea serpent to have laid claim to something as precious and rare as this photo, he had to have been there when the ship carrying it went down.  Had to have been there when the tiny hand who’d drawn and written the other letters and pictures had turned their backs in order to do something, the attention lost, just as the paper was thought to have been.    
  
Because there, on the canvas, was one of the few pictures of The Holmes Lineage.    
  
A tiny toddler Sherlock Holmes held tightly in his Mother’s arms...    
  
Upon the deck under Moran’s careful watch, John went deathly still and began to growl.


	17. The Metamorphoses

“How, in the ever loving Hell, did you get your grubby little fish hands on something as precious as this?”  Moriarty had started shouting at the bound Merman before he ever reached the top of the stairs where Moran had been dozing and the fish man had been biding his time, growling lowly enough so that through a combination of shouts and growls, Moran had been awakened fully.  “How did you get this picture?  How?  I demand you tell me at once!”    
  
Moriarty’s fury was clear from here, even in the dark.    
  
John simply snarled and hissed ferociously back at him, face drawn in anger as he tried to round himself up in the tub.  His weight was balancing delicately on the fact that he’d been able to get his tail up and under his upper body weight and his claws around the rim of the tub, and was pulling a familiar tactic of looking bigger and badder than what one actually was.  The fins and aquatic membranes were all ruffled up and standing on end, appearing larger than they had earlier, and were probably some sort of defense mechanism that protected the Merman in the wild and open waters.  They were doing little to impress the likes of Moriarty and Moran, but from the perspective of another creature, it was prospectively terrifying.    
  
But even chained to the banister as he was, the Merman was more than an impressive sight to behold regardless of his defensive disposition, all gleaming scales and angry teeth.  It was something that most people would never get to see, and although Moriarty had been privy to seeing a few of these creatures from afar in his life time, he’d never realized before now just how completely inhuman they were.  Not before now, anyways.  
  
Traditionally, Mermaids or Merfolk had been drawn, illustrated, painted, rendered, and portrayed as having the beautiful upper torsos of humans with the lower torso of brightly colored fish dyed with exotic colors.  Mostly women were the subject of these fantasy fueled renderings, lovely lasses that were so unlike bar maids or dock wenches with their rough features and even rougher skin.  Lovely creamy skin complete with exotica features and even lovelier hair, shells and precious stones hanging in stands as long as ropes about their necks.  Their fins were physical beauty in and of themselves within the paintings, but they worked much like human legs would, bending at a central point like knees, and at the “waist and ankles.”  It’s what made them look so beautiful and unearthly in the depictions, but close enough to human women to be truly attractive.    
  
In reality that wasn’t true, not at all.  Instead of fish like, the Merman before him more closely resembled a coiling snake waiting to strike, the beautiful scales a deadly illusion to keep his mind off the fact that the beautiful face and body held a mouthful of horribly jagged teeth and sharp claws that could render flesh from bones.  The tail didn’t even work like human legs did, and indeed bent in more places than just the traditionally thought out two, coiling and whipping about like a serpent with ruffled plumage for a tail decoration. It was logically how they were so fast in the water, and Jim -being the sort of person he was- knew that these creatures could out-swim humans with little to no effort.  If anyone was to ever fall overboard with a prowling Mer lose in the waters...well, then that person wasn’t likely to be seen above water again alive anytime soon.  Moriarty knew that as did Moran.    
  
Mers were more serpentine in appearance too, more or less, their long and well muscled tails moving less like a fish or human’s would, and more like a snake’s would. Moran had once caught a sea snake and skinned it on deck, it fighting the entire time, even after it was supposed to have died. The Mer’s monster tail could coil up and be used as a weapon as well as a propulsion system, and there were no sort of recognizable joints hindering the odd and rapid quick movements as it was flung back and forth with unmeasured strength.  This discovery had startled Moriarty at first, of course, but the Merman locked safely in his tub was a sackful of surprises almost every time he moved about the wooden container.  Not only did he have a tiny bottle of impossible papers hanging about his neck, but his anatomy was full of morphological differences, improbabilities, and deadly curiosity.   
  
Not one for hands-on science before, Jim was starting to feel the pull.    
  
After he ate the beast he’d dissect what was left.  
  
He’d throw the leftovers to the other Mers he’d have by then.       
  
This creature wasn’t some harmless beauty trapped by fear mongering humans, as its pretty package would have you too believe.  This fact alone would be enough to throw the most experienced hunter off the scent, and it would fool a lesser man.  Commandant James Moriarty wasn’t a lesser man though.  He knew well just how deadly the Mer allure could be, how fooling it was to be able to stare at a beautiful face out in the lapping waters and assume the mind that went with it was just as shining.  Just as beautiful if only you could reach it, gently grasp at it with you undeserving fingers.  It was a ruse that made their centuries-old hunting techniques absolutely devastating.  And oh so much more brilliant that common spears and nets.    
  
But perhaps it was more than that, more than just the physical allure that drew Moriarty in to begin with?  Sure, Irene had been hauntingly beautiful and John was just as handsome in his own way, but Moriarty had long ago found that physical beauty did little for him in the ways it would a normal man.  Well, so much less than a good challenge or mental companion: a mental equal, one who could help keep his mind sharp and his wit razor bound.  He would prefer that to all else, truly, but he doubted he could stand it if they were an old hag or disfigured Leper.  Irony was about, but it wasn’t lost on him.  The physicality was something he wanted to take apart, bit by bit, until there was nothing left, but it was also something he wanted to desperately own.  Own every bit of, every tiny particle, for himself and no one else.    
  
He would not allow any to take his newfound kingdom away from him.    
  
“I demand you to tell me how you came about such things!”  Moriarty roared again, this time ignoring the hissing and seizing the Merman about the frilled scruff of his gills and the long hair at his neck, earning him more than a pain-filled roar.  “These are papers and objects that you could not possibly have, that no one can have!  These came from the depths of The Byron, a ship that lays asleep at the bottom of the ocean and has for the greater part of two decades!”    
  
“The Byron, sir?” Moran asked suddenly.  “As in Admiral Holmes’ ship?  The Admiral Holmes’ ship?  Sherlock and Mycroft Holmes’ father?”    
  
“One in the same...  And this fish has papers and a small painting that could only have been onboard at the time of its sinking, but not when it went down.  Not even the illustrious Sherlock Holmes had anything like this after the sinking of his parent’s ship.”  Jim responded tightly, shoving John back into the shallow water before starting to pace back and forth.  “There are very, very few pictures of the family left, and I open a small bottle that hung about this fish’s neck and find one of the very few still in existence?”    
  
“What do you mean that there are papers that were present at the ship’s sinking but didn’t go down with it?”  Moran was standing up now, popping his back as he stretched out the kinks sitting placed into his back.  “You’re not making much sense, Sir.”    
  
“I mean that these papers would have had to have been on board when The Byron was at sea, but that they didn’t go into the sea with it.  They were never wet or underwater, as you would expect from a Merman having them.”  Moriarty handed the older parchment to his Commander before swinging his hand back to John.  “These came from on deck.  But that isn’t possible!”    
  
The Commandant continued to shout obscenities and questions at the increasingly-agitated Merman, only to receive growls and equally frustrated cooing and trilling in response.  The beast’s tongue was none-the-less sharp, even in its own semblance of language, and Moran -as well as Moriarty likely- knew that whatever it was trying to convey was anything but pleasant.  His expression told all really, as well as his inhuman body language and the way he kept trying to swipe at them both, despite being in irons.    
  
His tail was not as equally lashed down.    
  
“Beast of Triton!” Moriarty continued to howl, no doubt terrifying the crew resting only a few decks below with his infuriated speech.  “Give me your secrets!  I will have the location, I will have where the rest of your kind hides!  They are mine to call!”    
  
Jim went to lunge for the Merman in the tub, teeth bared and eyes blazing with fires that Moran hadn’t seen in years, only to be caught just short by the fish’s mighty tail, sending the smaller man flying, a flash of something resembling purplish ink upon the blade as well as Moriarty’s white shirt.  Not since his first encounter with the mysterious Sherlock Holmes had Sebastian seen such a primal display, and even then it had been controlled rage, a slowly bubbling fury that was merely waiting for its opportune moment to break free.  This was something else, this was bordering on derangement and it was horribly dangerous, both for the Commandant as well as the crew.  It Moran hadn’t caught him in time, the Captain would have driven his small, concealed dagger straight into the Merman’s heart instead of merely clipping its tail.  And not only would it have been too soon for the fish-man to die, it would almost certainly destroy any chance that they might have at finding the Mermaid Isles.     
  
“Sir, no!” Moran begged as he attempted to wrestle the bit of metal from the man’s hands, trying to take it without hurting either of them, but only managing to knock it so that it went flying onto the deck.  “Sir, get a hold of yourself!  Don’t let that thing know it is getting the better of you!”    
  
Like sharks, the predators began to circle at the sight of first blood.  
  
The tiny blade was glinting dangerously in the lamp light just to their right, the left of the Merman, an arm’s length away from the tub the opposite of where the Commandant had fallen.  When Moran realized just where it had landed he froze, keeping his smaller Captain’s form held tightly to his front, trying to prevent too much movement or notice.  But the Commander wasn’t the only one who noticed where the bloodied blade had landed, and indeed it had caught the attention of both Moriarty and the Merman, pinning everyone in place for only a hair’s breath.  The sea went as quiet as the men on deck, as if holding its breath to see what would occur in the wake of such a move.    
  
“Keep the blasted Merrow from reaching the blade...” Moriarty’s heavily accented voice whispered quietly between the two of them, naught but the air to hear what he had to say.  “I require him to lead us before his use is up.”    
  
Sebastian nodded tightly before taking a hesitant half-step backwards.    
  
He could only watch as the Merman lunged for the blade.    
  
The heavy beast hefted itself up and out of the tub far faster than Commander Moran would have thought possible, that was for sure.  It had only barely braced itself on its arms and hands at the rim before the entirety of it was slithering out onto the deck, mighty tail flopping loudly with a wet slap.  The small cut where Moriarty had drawn blood when John had smacked him to the ship’s deck was bleeding sluggish, deeply colored blood that looked almost black in the dim light, unheeded or unnoticed by the wound’s recipient.  It was hardly more than a scratch, really, but it was something that would certainly sting when exposed to the open air and the salt water sluicing off the Mer’s body rapidly as he slithered forwards, the wood no doubt tugging as well.  The golden scales of John’s lower body flashed as much as the dagger had, belaying the quicksilver movements it was able to make even out of the water.    
  
“Use the Clutch, Sebastian!”  Moriarty hollered as he too lunged for the blade, trying to get it from the possible reach of John before it was too late, small body scrabbling across the deck.  “The damn shell I gave you for keeping!  Use it!  Use it now!”    
  
The Commander didn’t need to be told twice.    
  
Deftly, he reached beneath the collar of his tunic, grabbing at the soft leather of the clutch’s band and tugged it up and out of the cloying cloth.  The shell’s fragile ridge met his lips with little hesitation as the taller man used it to produce a sharp, harsh, single note that cut through the air to where the Merman was still pulling its way across the deck.  But all movement stopped when the tone pierced the night, and instead of continuing forwards, John turned all of his movement into twisting about to face where Sebastian was standing, the Clutch still resting there at the ready.  The Merman looked confused before he swung his head too and fro in one graceful movement, as if looking for something...or someone, Moran realized.  He was looking for Sherlock Holmes, to whom he’d given the Clutch, looking to him for direction on how he should react to the new situation.  But Sherlock Holmes was dead, and if the Merman was too stupid to realize that it was Sebastian blowing the tune, then it deserved to be confused.    
  
The Mermaid cooed lightly, only three notes in succession, before resuming to searching for his missing Captain.  He waited a few moments before repeating the notes, head swiveling about once more before Sebastian realized he was waiting for a response.  Delicately, he blew a few notes into the tiny Clutch, praying it was the proper response.  If they could only get the beast to calm down, respond to their commands, then they would be in fantastic shape for the journey ahead.  And whatever the Commander had said via tones, it appeared to have worked.  The Merman lowered itself to lay belly down on the deck, mighty tail curling to rest near its upper torso languidly, before he gave some sort of tonal affirmation.    
  
“Hold him there while I go and retrieve Triton’s Conch.” Moriarty said as he scooped up the small dagger, replaced it, and righted all of his clothing.  “That won’t fool him for long, and we’ll need something heavier duty before our trip is out anyways.”     
  
The predatory smirk on both of their faces matched perfectly.


	18. Someone That I Used To Know

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Holy Shit guys, I got fan-art. And it is the most wonderful thing ever. I swear, I love you all so much, so very, very much. So here are the links, plus some more stuff I’ve whipped up during the wait. I’ve been meaning to have this done way before now, but Mycroft was being a pain. 
> 
> http:// maddhatter13. deviantart. com/ favourites/#/ d4v7skt  
> http:// maddhatter13. deviantart. com/ favourites/#/ d4v7s3s  
> http:// maddhatter13. deviantart. com/ favourites/#/ d4v8ova  
> http:// maddhatter13. deviantart. com/ favourites/#/ d52ndw6

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> And also one last bit of note: If you draw me fanart, it will go into the final copy, which I plan on making into a downloadable PDF file so you can put this shit on your computer or e-reader or wherever you want it. It will have pictures in the appropriate places, because I love pictures in books, and because I know all of you do too.

Port Royal was humid and dank, the air a sickly sweet cacophony of sticky rum, body odor, blood, and burning debris everywhere you stepped.  Fires spread out randomly in the streets the closer they were to the military fortress located in the center of the booming port town, bands of bound soldiers being guarded by celebratory pirates and stone faced buccaneers that could only be in his brother’s legendary service.  Roars of cheering, war cries, and protests provided a deadly soundtrack to a dance that was swiftly coming to an end before their very eyes.  The Port had been designed for sea raids and other long rang warfare, so then the pirates had slipped into the bay under the cover of darkness, no one had been any wiser to their activities.  In fact, it was well known that the port was a place where some pirates could be actually funded by the crown to do their dirty work at sea, as long as it was focused on the enemies of the crown and no one else.  So it was because of these reasons that the blind eye had been turned.    
  
The British Commodores and Admirals stationed there had never even seen the attack coming.  Not until it was too late, of course, and by then it was just plain unsightly, the state of affairs of the British Royal Crown fallen into such disrepair.  Sherlock could feel it deep within his bones and in the pulse that radiated a dull sort of pain within his wounded side, feel it caressing and slashing its way in order to burrow within his chest cavity.  It would stay there, Sherlock was sure of it, and he would welcome the feelings with an enthusiasm he hadn’t had for anything in ages.  All because of John and his beloved crew.  A crew that was, currently, being busted out of heavy irons deep within the Gallows Jaunt inside the main bit of the fortress.  That was, of course, where they were headed now.    
  
“Look lively, Sherlock.”  Mycroft said almost softly, the often-sharp jab dulled by the events around them and his brother’s insufferable ability to read him better than most others.  “It wouldn’t do well for you to snuff it now, not so close to your goal.  It wouldn’t be seemly and is most ill-advised in regards to handling your crew.”  
  
Sherlock snorted slightly as they continued on their way, Mycroft and Admiral Palace sandwiching him between them both, two pairs of able bodied hands in case of unforeseen ambushes or attacks.  While he wasn’t completely invalid, he was still in quite a bit of pain, which made handling a sword with any finesse almost impossible.  Mycroft most assuredly knew this and would not be hesitant to share the information with Harry, which is most likely what had happened when they conferenced aboard the vessel some time before.  They’d been left to it while he had gone below deck once more in search of his affects and any supplies that he would require to go ashore, more than enough time for them to make their plans without him.    
  
Normally Sherlock would be irate, irritable at best, scathing at the most inopportune of moments when he would be required on other mental matters such as the one that lay before them.  He was petulant, true, but not without cause for the most part, and even then it had a deep-seated root in him that others couldn’t even begin to fathom.  His mood swings were far more complex than the term “pouting” could ever convey.  Even if his brother Mycroft insisted it was because he was just being childish.    
  
“As always, Mycroft, your words fill me to the brim with enthusiasm.”  He said with a straight face, tone dead of its normal inflections.  “Bring on the horizon, for I might find my way back.”    
  
Admiral Palace tutted gently before steering them down a side street.    
  
“Why don’t you tell us about your friend John, Sherlock?  I’ve been dying to hear all about the mysterious man who has so captured our very own Sociopath’s heart.”  Harry’s eyes glittered in the flickering firelight as they neared another pile of burning rubble, the light making shadows and glitter dance in their depths.  “He must be rather extraordinary to capture your attention.”    
  
Sherlock’s heart wrenched painfully inside his chest at the mere mention of how unique John had been, would continue to be, if they were able to make good time and catch up with Moriarty and his ship.  It made the subtle sting of betrayal all the more prominent and harder to ignore, which only in turn made him hurt worse and worse.  Like a toothache constantly exposed to sweets and strong booze.  It was a pain you couldn’t get around, but in controlled doses would be somewhat controlled.    
  
Sherlock said somewhat with a grain of salt.    
  
“You can get addicted to a certain type of sadness, Sherlock.  You’ve been experiencing it for so long...let us in.  Tell us about John and relieve yourself of your burden.”  Mycroft pleaded in his own way, eyes begging more than his words or tone ever could.  “Let me in, I only want to help you, as does Admiral Palace.  But you have to talk to us first, we cannot read your mind.”  
  
“Indeed not!” Harry snorted somewhat, his dignity always in contradiction with some of his more favored actions and habits, snorting when he laughed one of the more noticeable actions.  “I dare say there are few out there who would even put their lot into try, and far fewer than that who could even have chance to succeed.”    
  
Mycroft nodded his agreement before resuming his imposing silence just over Sherlock’s shoulder, trying to be encouraging and patient in a way that he’d never quite gotten the hang of.  But deep down Sherlock appreciated the gesture for what it was meant to be and not exactly how it turned out, and though he’d have a hard time ever expressing it in tangible ways like words or physical affection, he could appreciate them none-the-less.  His brother knew it anyways, of this Sherlock was sure, and that alone helped to relieve the weight that had gathered on his shoulders over the years.  Few beings in the entire known world could do that for him...and the ones that could, Sherlock could nearly count on both his hands and feet, if he were that lucky.    
  
“John is...very remarkable, fantastic, even.”  He started out slowly, hesitant to expose his full underbelly in one go, even to those who only meant to help him.  “But he is not like you or I in any sense of the meaning.  John is holy unique, and I don’t meant that in just a mental sense.  Despite all his flaws and injuries -which he has in droves- he remains as beautiful as the sunrise upon the water.”    
  
“Well then, what do you mean?” Mycroft pushed ahead, probably missing the undertone in Sherlock’s words, but perhaps not.  Maybe he was only trying to help in his own way.  “If he is so extraordinary, why have I not met him aboard your ship?  Surely I would have heard about such an addition to your crew.”    
  
“Because John is not human, Mycroft.  We kept him a secret.”    
  
Whereas before the tension in the air of Port Royal could have been cut with a blade, it could now be swatted at with a very deft hand, and the silence that had fallen between the three companions was just as rich.  Some part of Sherlock reveled in the fact that he’d never been able to stun his brother into silence before, while a more rational part of him realized the silence as more of a horrified one than a stunned or accepting one.  All pirates worth their wait in salt knew stories about inhuman creatures that lived beneath the friendly waves of the sea, and exactly what they did to humans they caught in their thrall nets.  Mycroft was protective enough to see how in danger Sherlock had been during all those months of fraternizing with John, whether he was truly dangerous or not.    
  
Because there were few creatures of the sea that were solitary hunters by nature.    
  
“I gave orders to run from John originally, the first time I truly caught sight of him just off the side of my ship.  He’d been showing himself in glances to the rest of the crew and I had just brushed it off to fatigue from the sun and a recent run we’d made.”  Sherlock ran one long fingered hand through his unruly curls and sighed.  “That was not the case and John followed us all the way to Baker Island.  I thought he was hunting us, despite his shoulder injury, which I thought would limit him enough so that he could not follow us.”    
  
“He was not?”  This was Harry now, a voice of balance and reason as well as a guiding figure that he’d been in the younger part of Sherlock’s life.  “Hunting you, that is.  Clearly he followed you despite wounds of a grievous nature.”    
  
“I thought he was, at first, hunting us.  When he’d hear one of the crew make noise about him after seeing him, or see someone noticing him in the surf, he’d hide.  I know what they say about his kind.”  Sherlock turned away and continued walking again, only just noticing they’d stopped.  “What they do to sailors.  I gave orders to run and we fled to Baker Island.  I had hoped for the best.  But...”  
  
“But?”  
  
“He followed, I don’t know how, but he followed.  It was only hours after our arrival that I spotted him floating out in the surf, limp and drained, but there.  It was then in my haste to alert someone, anyone, that I tripped and fell overboard.”  Mycroft sucked in a rapid breath, his face taking on this pinched version.  “When I came to I was being drug over the rocks on the island shore.  I thought I was going to die, that John was going to eat me like his kind are want to do.  It was far enough away from where my crew had come ashore that no one could see us or hear us, I was alone.”    
  
Sherlock paused and pinched the bridge of his nose tightly, sighing again.  This was such an awkward story to retell, something so personal, so absolutely bloody humiliating.  And he had been humiliated, in both John’s face and the part of his crew that had come to his rescue.    
  
“Thankfully part of my crew had seen the splash of me going overboard and had come to where they could see disturbances in the surf, to make sure I hadn’t drown.  They didn’t realize John was the one who had drug me to shore.”  Just remembering John’s panic was enough to cause him to shiver all over again.  “But he didn’t try to kill me or even harm me.  He fed me a crab he had caught in the tide pool he’d chosen to drag me into, and was trying to make sure I was okay.  I think he was just as curious about me as I was him when I finally had enough sense about me to realize just what was going on around me.”    
  
“Did your crew attempt to harm the creature?”  Mycroft asked with a barely retained scandalized voice, an eyebrow raised as if he couldn’t believe his brother had come out for the better, regardless of the fact that he was still standing before him in semi-good health.  “Or capture it, or that matter?”    
  
“They probably would have, had I not stopped them.  We didn’t call him John then, not at first, but he was stills scared of the group of people and the fact that he has a primitive fight or flight response.  He tried to flee, and in doing so caught his delicate tail membranes upon the rocks that were hiding us.”  It was like yesterday now, Sherlock could feel the sun on his face, the salt water in his hair, cloying, matting it as he tried to move.  “My first mate, Lestrade, helped me to free him and take him back to the ocean where we released him.  John has been with us every since, swimming beside and below the boat wherever we go.  He’s been with us for months now.”    
  
Mycroft’s upper lip curled slightly in further show of worried distaste, but he didn’t go any further to show how offended he was by the entire story.  Until he something Sherlock had said clicked within his every whirling mind, bringing all strains of thought converging on a very striking fact.  One that should not have gone unnoticed for as long as it had.    
  
“He’s been with you for months, you say?”  Mycroft’s face said nothing but his tone held everything.  “Tell me, Sherlock, was John apart of your crew when I came to visit you not so long ago?”  
  
“Yes, he was.  I had him hide.”  Sherlock responded with all seriousness, his eyes meeting his brother’s where he only vaguely saw the flash of hurt and betrayal.  “You would not have understood at the time, and I could not allow you to harm him when you did not know him.  John is different than the rest of them.”    
  
“The rest of whom, Sherlock?”  Palace again, this time prying, digging deep for information that the youngest Holmes was attempting to skate around.  “What sort of being is John.”    
  
“John is, for the lack of a better word for it, a Merrow.” At the two other men’s blank stares, Sherlock sighed and tried again.  His voice was quiet, resigned, knowing what would come of his words once they’d escaped his brilliant mind.  “A Merman.  John is a Merman, the male of the Mer species, and is nothing short of amazing.”    
  
The dual shouts of “What, are you out of your mind, Sherlock?” were more than expected.  
  
But it was his brother’s comment that took the cake.    
  
“I should have known when your message arrived from Tortuga that something happened in regards to those devil’s of the sea.  I should have known when the man said something about one of the barmaids falling for one’s charms.”  He stopped Sherlock quickly, pulling him to his chest with enough force to nearly knock the wind from Sherlock’s lungs.  It probably surprised Mycroft just as much as it did Sherlock.  “You had all the symptoms, all the classical signs of having brushed with the inhuman world.  But I never suspected that the guards to Davey Jones’ Locker had gotten to you.  Oh god Sherlock, I could have lost you too!”    
  
For a long few minutes, the three men stood there just inside the gates of the defeated army stronghold, Sherlock shocked into an embrace with Mycroft, who stood just as stock still as his brother did.  Both prayed that that neither moved, less the moment shatter and they were forced to part ways once more, as proper decorum demanded, that their lives demanded.  Sherlock had so missed this, the closeness of a familiar relation, the embrace that held more love in it that Sherlock’s heart could ever think possible.  Next to John...well, next to John, Sherlock was afraid no one loved him so unconditionally anymore.  Not even his crew, not even his brother.    
  
The tears that were trailing down his face were more of a surprise than the hug was.  
  
“Moriarty cannot have you, Sherlock, I would give my life to see to it.”  Mycroft sighed again, his forehead buried in Sherlock’s curls as he spoke, his voice as choked sounding as Sherlock’s throat felt at that very moment.  “And neither can any beast of the sea, jaded or not.  He couldn’t have you then and he cannot have you now.”    
  
Sherlock didn’t know if Mycroft meant James Moriarty or John.    
  
\--  
  
The crew was more than happy to see their Captain, safe and sound, as the three pirate lords traipsed through the tunnels leading to the mass holding cells that held them.  The crew had all been placed in there together, their threat minimal even as a mass, all awaiting a swift execution in the morning.  Now they were free, all being checked over by Admiral Palace and Mycroft’s surgeons and doctors, the cells they’d been in only hours previous now holding more and more Red Coats as group after group arrived in chains.  Sherlock was happy to note that everyone was present and accounted for, as well as in good standing health, only minor bruises and cuts visible.  Though the closer he got, the more he noticed that Mrs. Hudson was bruised and battered more than the others, and Sherlock felt he knew who had done such a thing to the elderly woman.  Moriarty would only live long enough to regret hurting Sherlock’s crew, his family, before he’d meet his fate at the end of the Holmes’ cutlass.    
  
Lestrade, followed swiftly by Tiny Tim, would probably agree to such terms.    
  
The very thin boy flung himself about Sherlock’s shins, arms tighter than bands of steal as he pressed his dirty face into knees and trousers, the much taller man’s heart clenching painfully before he knelt down to Tim’s level and embraced him back.  The boy didn’t seem too surprised at the sudden showing of physical affection, even though their Captain Holmes was hardly one for displays of affection in that manner, and gripped tighter back in response before he started to mumble something into the man’s shoulder bones and tunic.  Sherlock, having a hard time hearing him through the muffling of flesh and cloth, gently pulled him back so that he could see the boy’s tiny tear-smeared face, his fingers holding his chin gently.    
  
“What did you say, Tim?”  He asked carefully, calmly, trying to relieve the child of his duress.  “I cannot understand you when you speak into my shirt.”    
  
“It was ‘orrible, Captain.”  Tiny Tim said hurriedly.  “They’re gonna hurt John, I heard them.  I heard them say it.”    
  
“Heard who say what, Tim?  I don’t understand.”  Sherlock’s patience was already being tested, but he would be calm, he wouldn’t scare the child anymore than necessary.  He just wouldn’t.  “Explain everything that you heard on Moriarty’s ship.”    
  
“Captain?”  Lestrade said hesitantly, watching the two interact.  
  
“Hush, Lestrade.  Tim has something important he must tell me.  Then I will hear you out, I swear it.”    
  
“But Captain!”    
  
“Shut up, Lestrade!  Let the boy speak!”    
  
“They’re going to hurt John, Captain.  Moriarty has a big shell he’s going to use to make John show them how to get to his home.  The one he had before he came to us.”  Tiny Tim babbled, sobbing into Sherlock’s shoulders finally, clutching at his shirt front in desperation.  “You can’t let them hurt John!”    
  
Sherlock, taken aback at such an abrupt statement was at a loss for words for a few moments before Lestrade picked up the slack again, a frown marring his features, but a twinkle of affection deep within his eyes.  He ran a calloused hand through his silvering hair before replacing the bandana that normally covered his skull from the sun while on ship before even attempting to finish the tail that Tiny Tim was so desperate to sob out into his shoulders.    
  
“They intend to find the Mermaid Isles by using John’s blood and the Triton’s Conch as well.  It is what the other Mermen and Mermaids fashion their clutches after, smaller shells to resemble the larger one that was used in ancient times to call them to battle by their mates.” Lestrade looked straight at Sherlock when he said the word mates, the implications of the Clutch finally sinking into his thick head with an almost lightening fast shock. “It is a way of calling their people, both male and female, and I believe Commandant Moriarty intends to use it on them.  I’m not sure why he would call the Merfolk or what his intentions are, but he has the Conch and he’s going to use it to do harm.”  
  
Both Holmes and Admiral Palace blinked in shock.  
  
“What, don’t want me to shut up now?”  Lestrade bit out before sighing again, rolling his eyes.  “You daft sod, Moriarty’s crew is all alight with the information.  They couldn’t keep their traps shut, especially if you knew how to goad them into talking.  That’s what Timmy there is trying to say to you.  We need to help John before Moriarty uses him in whatever way the Triton’s Conch demands.”    
  
“He either wishes to harness them as a power or to kill them all in a fit of rage....”  Sherlock said dryly, unusually uncomfortable with the developments put into recent light, both of a personal nature and a grand scale. The insinuations alone were enough to blind side him into speechlessness himself. “He said he wished to consume John to prolong his already over-extended life.  If he had a way to call thousands of Merfolk, he could live for centuries with borrowed time.”    
  
“My god, this is true, Sherlock?”  Mycroft asked quietly, his eyes almost the size of tea saucers from their place in his skull.  For a Man of Ice, he was being unusually expressive these last few days.  “What do we do?”    
  
This was addressed to Admiral Palace.    
  
“Haven’t you ever wondered why you’ve only ever seen John, Sherlock? And yet fish live life in a familial pack called a school, something that is also true for Merfolk as well.”  Harry said cautiously, his eyes dark and a thousand miles away, planning, plotting.  “Have you ever seen any other Mers, Sherlock?  Besides John?  This is important.”    
  
“Well, no.”  Sherlock said carefully, confused.  “But what does that have to do with John?”    
  
“He’s an exile, John is, outed from the Mer population for an unknown reason.” Harry said carefully, his face creased in concern and a deep seated sadness.  “He could be dangerous, he could be a fluke, it could be because you said he was injured.  It could be any number of things that keep him from the rest of his kind.  It could be a trap.”    
  
“It isn’t a trap!  John is part of my crew, and Moriarty took him with devious intentions!  I will not allow for that lizard posing as a man to harm him, not while I still draw breath!”  Sherlock sprung from his kneeling position too quickly, nearly doubling over in pain, his hand flying to his side as he gave a cry of pain.  It nearly doubled him in too, and both his brother and Lestrade rushed to his aide, helping him to stand as he took panting breath after breath.  “Do not condemn John for things his species is known for.  He is different, he is better.  And he is apart of my crew.  If you will not help, then I will go alone.”     
  
Harry gave a great huff of a breath, perhaps a chuckle, perhaps in irritation.    
  
“I never said we weren’t going after him, Sherlock.  You’re missing the point.”  Harry pointed at Sherlock though, eyes dangerous.  “I only wish you to remember what it is that John came from, what he would be going back to.  If he was truly cast from his home to wander the ocean alone, then there was a reason.  It could work to our advantage and at the same time I might work against us.  You must know the consequences before you go running into a fray.”    
  
A petulant look took over Sherlock’s face as he stared Palace down, hand clutching at his side still, his white shirt stained red above his wound.  Him, not understand the consequences this entire plan would have?  He felt like laughing.  It wasn’t the good kind of laughter that he would produce.    
  
“I am going after John, Harry.  Nothing you can say or do will stop me.  I will go alone if I must.”  He said resigned, eyes fluttering gently at the thought.  “But I will not leave one of my own to such a fate.  I cannot, in good conscious, leave John to the hands of Moriarty and Moran.”    
  
Palace smirked a cat-like grin.    
  
“Good.  I never pictured you as a coward, Sherlock, or someone who would back down from an obligation.  I’m glad you’ve lived up to my expectations and more.”  Harry turned to one of his men by the door, the grin turning into a full blown smile.  “Man the deck, Cartwright, we weight anchor as soon as Sherlock and his crew are brought aboard!”    
  
Behind him, Sherlock could hear his entire crew give a resounding war cry.    
  
He’d never felt more at home.    
  
Now, it was time to get back John.


	19. To The Water, To The Deep

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> More lovely fanart for me from Leebrace over on dA! Thank you very much! She’s also made me decide that Moriarty has these ridiculously elaborate hats that he wears -the mirror his suits- and that they are great plumed things colored in rich reds and deep blues, to match his station as a Commandant. Moriarty apparently has more flair in his pinky finger than I do in my entire body.
> 
> http:// leebrace. deviantart. com/ art/ Glimpse-of- Gold-Fanart- 296406559

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Okay guys, the new Prometheus Video “Happy Birthday David!” is the perfect example of what I think my Moran would look like, hair and all. Apparently Michael Fassbender got my mental description of Moran and tailored himself accordingly. And I’m just going to throw in there how stoked I am about Prometheus anyways, because even if the plot is rubbish -which I don’t think it will be- the special effects and side stuff is more than enough to keep my interest piqued. Also included is a conch trumpet so you all know what it sounds like, and just how chilling I sort of feel like it is. 
> 
> http:// www. youtube. com/watch?v= f6Zt8ZgPe9c

Mermaid Isle was unlike anything he’d ever seen before, truly.  
  
The great spires and rocks that jutted along the coast line were as imposing as the walls of some great fortress long since past its time, but intimidating none the less.  There was little greenery on any of the island visible from the ship, though that hardly concerned Moriarty since the culture that inhabited the island was an aquatic one, so he hadn’t really expected anything but rocks and a few birds at most.  There were small stretches of beach of course, white sand gleaming int he shallow evening light on the second day, the sun just beginning its decent behind clouds and the horizon as the look out spotted the land.  From there it had only take a few hours to reach a close enough distance to the isle that they could drop anchor without risk of harming either the ship or the isle bay it resided in.    
  
It had taken longer than he had thought to get the damn Merman to cooperate with him enough to give some sort of indication as to how they were to go about finding the legendary Mermaid Isle.  Triton’s Conch of course was large and heavily decorated in both some semblance of writing, crude pictures of Mermaids, and metals garnished with small gems, but there was no English to be seen, and the pictures were hardly helpful in deciding a course of travel.  Likewise, upon finding out that dear Sherlock had captured the heart of a Merman -a male!- it was even more of a challenge, since he could not just ask the stupid beast like he would have done to a Mermaid just how they were to get to the Mermaid Isle.    
  
Well, if ask were the right term, anyways...it was the term he’d use, after all.  
  
But probably not one others would use.      
  
In retrospect, he wished that he had pursued the rumored Mermaid from Tortuga while he’d had the chance too, instead of wanting to take everything he could from Sherlock first and foremost.  It had cost him both time and ease of movement, and it was starting to grate upon his nerves.  If only Sherlock had done the easy, simple thing he’d been supposed to and found a proper Mermaid instead of a wounded, lone Merman, he wouldn’t be having those difficult life decisions, and he sincerely wished that he could just find the blasted place so that he could completely fulfill his destiny without too much hassle!    
  
It had been the wish, the sheer desire to better himself from everyone else on the sea, to make all others his servants, that had unlocked the secret of how he was to find the Mermaid haven he was searching for.  One needed the proper amount of desire, the proper wish, to find the place, as it was protected by sea magic and natural ocean formations.  Triton’s Conch -which had also been crafted with the same magic to hide the island- was able to pick up on the desires of the bearer in order to navigate a ship successfully to bay without any human intervention or guidance.  Throw in a bit of shed Mer blood and the whole thing was taking over the helm of the ship without a second thought, magic strong enough to guide the huge English ship through the waters with ease.  Moriarty had never been so absolutely happy as he had in those few minutes after getting into the scuffle with the unwilling Merman John.    
  
Once they’d settled fully in the bay and he’d fulfilled all of his Captain’s duties, Moriarty had ordered for ships to be sent ashore and parties to explore only the land based parts of the island.  They hadn’t seen any Mermaids yet, but that didn’t mean they weren’t there.  Hiding probably, an unknown enemy or potential threat making fall near their well guarded homes, it was the way animals were cautious about unfamiliar things.  The Commandant had no doubt that this was the same sort of reaction, which also meant that if they felt too threatened they would attack first and question later.  And he did not want his expedition to start off with the killing off of some of his crew... They were often such a pain to replace.    
  
But after an hour or so of exploration, the long boats returned to ship side, the glaring light of the setting sun illuminating their approach back for all to see.  Moran had given his report -for he had wanted to go ashore with the other men first to make sure it was safe- and had indicated the most advantageous position for calling upon the Merfolk.  The bay opened up into many parts, he’d said, and some were trenched far back into the island with coves and inlets, but only one spot had anything even resembling human  presence, and even that was objectionable.    
  
The rickety wooden planking was nothing like common dock practices of England now, or even anything he was aware the Spanish, Dutch, Irish, or Chinese built.  It was old, large timbers strapped together with dry rotted rope and a few metal bands binding the planks in place, but only barely.  They were narrow and long, the proper supports either being long gone or splintered in to many places, making the path long and slow going, which only frustrated The Commandant once he’d stepped foot upon the Isle himself.  He silently cursed whoever had made the damn piers and dock system with everything in his being, especially when he was forced to hang onto Moran or grab at other members of his crew to steady his over-enthusiastic steps.    
  
But finally they had arrived at the relatively flat expanse of stone that jutted out into a silent, well protected inlet that was guarded against the harsh open waters by a wall of rock and stone.  The waters were dark and deep, reflecting the flickering light of the lanterns they’d brought with them, and it made him vaguely uncomfortable that he couldn’t see more than a few inches down into the deep.  If anything were to grab hold and pull, visibility would almost instantly be gone, and whoever had gone in wouldn’t be coming out.  (Though a sense of rush followed to vague unease since it had been such a long time since Jim Moriarty had felt anything approaching unrest or discomfort.  It truly was a unique feeling.)  He had given Moran implicit instructions before they left though to mind himself about the waters and to keep a very sharp eye on them.    
  
Once everyone had been in position -and he’d felt comfortable- he’d given a great blow through Triton’s Conch, the deep noise ringing out across the waters blindly.  He proceeded to give a few more gusts into the great shell, each note changing and forming a melody as they moved over the area, a haunting sound that clearly chilled his men to the bones from the sounds he produced.  The notes held true power over the seas, that was for sure.    
  
Moriarty noticed right away that upon blowing the Triton’s Conch at the edge of the vast cove, that there was an almost immediate response, as if the Mers had been lying in wait for his call.  They probably had, watching him and his crew from the depths of their watery homes, keen eyes trained on a potential meal.  It wasn’t to be, of course, he’d known what they would do for years now, and he wasn’t going to let a simple sea serpent -no matter now pretty- get the one up on him.  But the effort of hiding was something he felt somewhat pleased with, like this had been a true challenge worthy of his time and attention.    
  
And then the water near his feet gave a great rippling movement.    
  
The Mermaid who approached was everything and nothing like his Irene had been.  
  
This one was much larger than Irene had been, her memory petite form easily dwarfed by the approaching silvery figure that cut a neat path through still waters towards him and his men.  This Mermaid was easily into the ten foot long range, if not more, and had hair nearly as long as her entire body, the white-blond tresses like liquid silver in the water as she moved.  A top her head rested a great crown composed of sea shells, coral, glittering pearls and long forgotten gems touched with ship-wrecked silver spikes, her hair worked in and around it neatly to keep it from moving as she swam.  Her skin was pale and had a pearly translucent sheen to it unlike any woman’s he’d ever seen before, the unearthly feel to her completed by dazzling eyes of pale sea green that were sharp with centuries worth of knowledge.    
  
This beauty was easily to separate from human women, the almost albino appearance of her a striking contrast to the darker hair and skin tones of most of the other’s in her wake, tails of all colors flashing every now and then just near the top of the water for him to see.  Several other of the Mermaids wore crowns about their heads, but none were as fancy or extravagant as the one in the lead’s was, and none of the lesser ranked (clearly because the Silver Beauty was in charge) approached him before their leader did.  Moriarty could feel the faint itch of anticipation crawling just beneath his skin as the Sirens cautiously eyed them from just on the water’s edge.  For these were true Sirens, beauties of the deep, Mermaids of the highest caliber, and soon to belong completely to the Commandant.    
  
So focused he was on the welcoming party, that Jim almost missed the terrified rush of a few bodies just off behind some rocks to the Mermaid’s right, the dull luminosity of the tails and the lesser ornamentation telling him that they were the males.  Dull Mermen trapped in a small group upon their approach, separated from the safety of the deeper, dark waters and the shallow rock caves hiding just out of sight.  They did not try to approach him or his men, and instead fled without surfacing to get a better look, as more and more Mermaids seemed to be doing.  There were no glittering gems at their necks, from what he could see, and nothing to make them beautiful or eye catching from afar, even on their tails.  They were plain and ugly and not worth his time.    
  
By now there were well over thirty of the female beasts visible above the water, beautiful heads and faces bobbing gently in the surf as they treaded water.  There were probably more just out of sight of course, he wasn’t that dumb, but they were waiting for a signal surely from their leader, who had just hauled herself almost completely out of the water to sit at the rocky shore line and face him.  The movement had been graceful and nearly silent, water sliding off her torso and tail in great waves and trickles of salt and sea.    
  
Her body wasn’t much different out of the water, the same pale silver lines running down the front of her body to match those of her tail and hair, delicate features tricking the viewer into believing her weak or helpless, a damsel instead of a monster.  Her gills on her torso were clear and shiny, like freshly wet glass, and easily were ignored when they didn’t flare to take in a breath.  Her hands were webbed in much the same way, and matched the membranous fins at her back and sides, as well as on the forearms she rested her weight upon.  She was exquisite and she knew it, and Jim could see it in every line of how she held herself and how she moved, eyes hungry eyes watching him like a hungry predator.    
  
“You have called us, Son of Adam.  You have called and my people have heard.”  Her voice was lyrical and regale as it moved through the air, a faint musical tone accompanying the words like an accent.  “For what purpose have you come to our home?”    
  
Commandant Moriarty grinned darkly.    
  
“I have come to call upon your kind, Sea Maiden, for I have a wish that I know you are able to grant.”  Jim lied easily enough, knowing that Mermaids didn’t really grant wishes like folklore said they did.  “I had no expected so many of you though.  And what beauty!”    
  
“Flattery will get you everywhere, kind Sir.  But I am afraid you have come all this way for nothing, for we do not grant wishes.”  She said it as if she were truly sad, though it was a facade, her light eyes silently mocking his stupidity.  “You mistake us for some other kind of sea deity, Poseidon perhaps, or Lir and Dakuwaqa?”    
  
“No, I mistake you not.   You are what I’ve searched for.  Years I have combed the waters of the Caribbean in search of you, but you cannot find this place without a true reason or desire.”  Jim gestured to his ship that was off in the distance, tied far out in the great bay of the Isle.  “And I have that desire.”    
  
“Oh?  And what do mortals know of desire?”  She questioned in a taunting voice, a slight humming noise coming from the waters around her as the others swam forward a bit more.  “We could teach your race so much about passion and desire, true burning desire.  If you would only listen.”    
  
“I would listen to your voice till the end of my days, if only I could.”  Perfect, they were playing right into Moriarty’s hand without realizing it, setting themselves up for the fall without too much effort.  “Only I had not realized you could speak so well.  I was under the impression that our language was not the same.”    
  
“Only our males cannot speak in human tongues.”  The leader of the little group said silkily, eyes lowered and demur, as if bashful or coy.  Moriarty knew better than to trust the gesture for what it appeared to be.  “They are only there for mates and continuing our species, not for lovers, it is why they are stupid.  It is also why we take on human lovers, because they are worthless.  Beneath us...but you are not.”    
  
Jim smirked: he knew the reason they were so poorly developed was because the Mermaids were the dominant gender, they ruled the seas and kept the males in cover, protected, only there for reproduction.  They weren’t allowed to go out into the ocean to search for prey like the females were, which was why they weren’t as cognitively developed as the females all ended up as.  The males were kept occupied and in secret for stock, a necessity but not a luxury, and it was apparent.  While the Mermaids were easily the more beautiful of the bunch, they were also the smartest, and from the looks of it, generally larger than the Mermen he’d only briefly seen hiding in the rocks upon arrival.  Usually, in any sort of society, that pointed to a matriarchal domination in the species, where the roles of the animal kingdom were reversed.    
  
Instead of the males being beautiful and attracting mates or doing the bread winning, it was up to the females to engage in all that behavior, while the males stayed in the nest and more than likely raised the young.  Though Moriarty hadn’t seen anything he would considering to be a child or a young Mer, he didn’t rule out right away that they were born live like mammals.  (Even though he didn’t even know if they were cold blooded like reptiles and fish, or warm blooded like mammals.)  But that could also mean that they were born more like fish, in large groups and from eggs, like the fish the one-half of them represented.  That would explain why several of the different groups of Mers shared characteristics that one would give to a family, similar fin and hair color, facial features, and structural build including the tail.  It would also explain why Mermaids seemed so keen to get out of the general population and find humans.    
  
That, and Moriarty really doubted that Mermaids were all that...monogamous.    
  
Another strange factor was that the Mermaids seemed not only better physically than the Mermen, but also mentally more efficient and graceful.  Not only could they clearly reason out problems, build underwater domains, and have a society in the loosest form of the word, they also spoke and interacted with other species, humans included.  And all of the Mermaids could speak English, among other languages, of that he was sure.  In fact, he swore he ever heard one of them speaking in Gaelic to one of the lower hands of his ship, his native tongue before press gangs took him from his home on one of the British Isles.  They were far more advanced than any of the Merman appeared to be, including the feisty John.    
  
But perhaps it was just because John was a fluke, an outcast of their society?  
  
Because by the looks of it, Mermen were kept close to home and bound to society and seclusion, where as John had been far, far from home all on his own.  And without permission!  Oh, what a naughty little fish he’d been!       
  
“What is your name?”  He asked carefully, pretending to be in her shallow thrall, easy prey, if only to gain answers.  His well clad body leaned forward more towards the dark waters where the Mermaids hovered, his focus on the breached form of the silver one entirely for the moment.  “You must have one, surely.”    
  
“Men have named me many things, but I was first called by the name of Tethys.”  The leader once more said with pride, her dainty chin rising in defiance ever so slightly, revealing the translucent gills that started where her neck an jaw met and extending back behind her hair and ears.  “The mother of sea nymphs, they called me.  I am the mother to many, true, but the lover to none.  Will you be my lover, little human?”    
  
It was Jim’s turn to pretend to be bashful and coy, turning his head and gaze away as if being caught thinking of such things was unholy and improper.  It only caused Tethys to grin more as she slithered closer, the edge of her massive tail dampening the corners of Moriarty’s coat where it brushed the ground.  It made him a bit angry, inside, to think that this beast was ruining his fine coat, but for the sake of the act, he had to pretend as if he didn’t notice such defilement.  But it was a inner battle that hardly had an equal.    
  
“I’m afraid, my lady, that I would not be suited for your lover.”  He said standing suddenly as she frowned up at him, confusion bleeding into her fishier facial markings.  “But you would make for an excellent tool in my plans.  You see, I wish to command the sea, and though you cannot grant wishes in general, you will be compelled to grant my wish.”  
  
She snarled in rage, a mouthful of sharp teeth and angered appearance quickly converting her once beautiful face into something ugly and inhuman.    
  
“I am not some plaything to be had, mortal!”  She took a mighty sweep at his legs, but missed as he neatly stepped out of range, his men quickly moving to grab and haul her forwards away from the water’s edge.  “You will die for touching me!  Tethys, mother to the sea!  My death will not go unpunished!”    
  
“Madam, do behave yourself.  I have no intention of killing you, not yet anyways.  I need you to help influence the rest of your kind.”  He smiled and snapped his fingers haughtily, Moran stepping forward seamlessly to hand him the great Conch he’d used to summon them with.  “I have Triton’s Conch of course, but combined with you, I will have full command of the seas at my disposal.”    
  
“You cannot keep me!  I will break your chains!” She snarled and thrashed, the net about her lower body only just barely containing her wrathful movements.  “And then I will savor the blood of your crew!”    
  
“My Lady Tethys, you are mistaken.”  Jim’s rage was evident in his eyes and his insane smile.  “It is I who will enjoy your blood if you do not behave, not the other way around.”


	20. Blackbird

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Ah, here we have some much needed plot development and some answering questions at last! Plus some set up for the future chapters and the grand final story, which means we’re quickly entering the home stretch of this lovely tale.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I suspect that I should point out before you start reading that I am not writing sexual pairings anywhere in this story, and that while they can still be romantic, no one is going to be getting down with their bad selves over anyone else in this bit. While I do ship Johnlock, I’m not intending to write it in this story as sexual urges, and though it is Love that they have here going on, it isn’t sexual in nature. I find it creepy even trying to think of how Merman!John and Pirate!Sherlock would get it on, and that’s mainly due to my knowledge of fish anatomy and biological background. Trust me guys, it just wouldn’t work. At all. In short, John and Sherlock can be in love and love one another without wanting anything sexual. Think of it as soul mates, two parts of a whole. Finding that other out there that completes you in ways that no one or nothing else ever will. It is companionship and love without that other element. 
> 
> A very platonic sort of love.

When Moriarty finally did get an up-close look at the other Mermen in the cove, he was more than taken back by the fact that they were nothing like John.  And by nothing like John, he meant absolutely nothing like him.  These creatures were almost grotesque in their appearances, their tales dull colors and shades of unflattering colors, the clawed hands dark and their skin rough and patchy in places with what looked like sunlight exposure.  Their ruffles were torn and mangled looking from wear and tear, most of them bearing what looked like scared over bite and claw marks along their shoulders, backs, and tails.  Eyes were squinted in some, and dull in others, unremarkable in appearance other than the fact that they looked wild and untamed, not sophisticated and delicate like their female counterparts.    
  
They looked nothing like John’s form.  Nothing at all, and the difference almost through Jim for a loop, so shocked was he.  Here he had a male specimen, and he’d just assumed that all the other males would look like this as well.  He’d never even considered the fact that John’s appearance could be a genetic fluke, and anomaly in the gene pool that made up the Mer society.  And by doing so had closed his mind off to a whole realm of answers that had been starring him in the face.  John wasn’t likely out of the original colony by force, or at least not the first time.  He’d probably chosen to leave and seek out a civilization for food, for the hunt.  His beauty would be enough to fool someone from a distance, and in short range he’d easily overpower them enough to devour them.    
  
And he’d probably done so for quite a long time, up until he was given that fascinating sunburst scar across his left shoulder.  One that Moriarty suspected was from a close-range pistol shot or other form of gunpowder.  But that question only opened up other ones to him.  Why did John look so much different from the other Mermen in the colony, and why was his tail a metallic color, when there were so few metallic colors potentially in the parental source?  In fact, the only other metallic colors that he’d been able to spot since being here were Tethys’ and a few of the Mermaids that had been in her company when they’d originally summoned them from beneath the waves, a surprisingly small total of only 10 or so, and none of them were gold.  And yet the magic that had brought them here had acted like a homing beacon, bringing Moriarty’s ship back to John’s birthplace.  Had his parents died somehow, or was it another factor that had to due with why John looked so strange in comparison to others?    
  
While that question festered, another one sprang unbidden to his mind.    
  
Why hadn’t John returned to his home when he was injured?    
  
Surely the others in the colony would tend to his wounds, help one of their own, even if he was badly hurt?  Didn’t normal groups work to protect and aid those wounded in the hunt?  The whole John issue just seemed to bring up more and more questions without resolving a few of the previous ones with reasonable answers, which was getting a might bit ridiculous, Moriarty thought irritatedly.  There had to be a good reason for why John had chosen to fend for himself and live out in the open waters of the Caribbean Sea instead of returning here to produce viable offspring.  It had to be there somewhere, in among the questions.  The answer, the one true answer, to the entire puzzle that was the Merman John and his unpredictable behaviors.    
  
Moriarty deeply suspected that this entire issue revolved around the infuriating enigma that was Sherlock Holmes.    
  
But even with the man dead, Jim planned on cracking the mystery wide open.    
  
Because where would he be without his games?  
  
“Moran, do bring our fishy guest onshore, won’t you?  I think he’ll be more comfortable with his own kind once more.”  Moriarty cackled madly for a moment.  “Don’t you?”    
  
“Aye, Commandant.”     
  
\--  
  
Mycroft’s ship, along with the others still residing in Port Royal after the raid, set back to see as swiftly as they could.  Admiral Palace had given orders to track Moriarty’s ship and movements, and his runner was reporting back to them as swiftly as it could possibly.  It allowed for Sherlock and Mycroft to take a much deserved rest, Sherlock reveling in the comforts that his crew was safe and on board with him, ready to serve while Mycroft enjoyed his brother’s momentary laps in worry. The night had grown long in their dally at the fort, but it was only just past sunrise when Sherlock woke in Mycroft’s bed once more to find the opposite side empty and cold.  It had been a very long time since the last time he and Mycroft had shared a bed with one another, he had been little still, and it was a feeling of sibling comfort that he sometimes missed deep in the night while he was alone.  He’d never tell Mycroft, but Sherlock often suspected that Mycroft felt the same way.  
  
So it was a bit upsetting to find that his brother’s comforting presence was absent so soon after they were to rest.  It wasn’t unusual for Sherlock to sleep so little or so late, he rarely slept like a normal person should, but he knew for a fact that Mycroft indulged in his sleeping behaviors enough for both of them.  But finding the bed cold and empty only led Sherlock to believe that his brother had been up for some time, which was unusual in itself.  Surely Mycroft would not meet Harry’s messengers without consulting him?    
  
Turning over and rolling slightly, only half-minded of his wounded side, Sherlock tucked up and out of bed, only to find Mycroft sitting at the other side of the room behind his desk, back to him.  A glass of Scotch sat ignored upon the desk by Mycroft’s elbow, the elder man himself leaning heavily upon his left arm, head tucked into his hand.  He was starring down at something in his right hand, Sherlock suspected, by the angle at which he was looking, though his right had was at an angle that hid it from view from where Sherlock was sitting on the bed still.    
  
“Mycroft?”    
  
“Hmm?” His brother hummed back, still not turning, though his attention shifted to the spot just to the right of where he sat, blank eyes resting on the wood of the wall.  “Yes, Sherlock?”    
  
“What is going on?”    
  
“Oh?  Nothing, just thinking, is all.”  Mycroft turned finally and Sherlock saw what looked like an envelope and a very old letter in his hand.  “It is something an elder brother must frequently do.”    
  
“I see.”  Sherlock’s answer was careful, guarded.  “What is it that you are debating?  Surely Harry has not got coordinates this quickly?”    
  
“No, Sherlock.  It has nothing to do with that.”    
  
He waited patiently for Mycroft to continue, but his brother did not.  Instead he once more allowed his attention to be captured by the letter in his right hand, thoughts drifting to a place that Sherlock could not follow.  It irked him to see his composed brother so wrought with emotion like this, knowing full well how composed Mycroft always was, how in control.  This lapse would be a horrendous blow to his ego, that was for sure, and Sherlock could hardly think of some reason to get him back into the present.  His mind wandered then, reaching out as far across the plains as it could, seeking answers before he was able to reign it back in.    
  
Mycroft beat him too it.    
  
“You were so little then, Sherlock, and we’d just lost Sherrinford and moved from England where I joined the Navy as quick as I possibly could.  No one really payed much mind when you said you had a friend that came from the water.”  Mycroft said softly, so very softly, holding the crumpled paper tight in his hands as his eyes began to focus once more.  “We just thought it was how you were trying to cope.  It went on for months before Mummy went down to the shore to fetch you for an early dinner and saw you in the surf playing with that thing.”    
  
“I don’t remember it.”  Sherlock said, his mind wandering, trying to figure out what his brother was trying to tell him, what was going on as he stood finally and carefully approached Mycroft.  “I do not remember ever having an imaginary friend, let alone a real one.  No one’s ever mentioned it before.”    
  
“You did... That beast, John as you call him.  I know it is the same one.  You knew him back then, at your young age.”  Mycroft said decisively, his hand extended to give Sherlock the crumpled paper he’d been holding in his hand since Sherlock had woke to find him sitting at his desk.  “Father was quite precise with his descriptions.”  
  
“What?”    
  
“I long debated showing you this letter, Sherlock.”  Mycroft said sadly.  “I think it is time you knew.”     
  
“Knew what?”    
  
But Mycroft didn’t answer beyond shaking his extended hand once more.    
  
Hesitantly, Sherlock took the letter from his brother’s hand, unfurling the gnarled edges and smoothing them out in his own hands as his eyes searched the aged paper.  Those cutting tools immediately focused upon the fact that this was an old letter, one read so many times that the paper was fraying and the letters were faded in places, bold in others.  But it was the signature itself that really caught Sherlock’s full attention, one that he had been so familiar with at one time but now only felt like a dream, a long lost piece of his life filtering back through shaded curtains.  It struck him with a fiery intensity that almost frightened him, one that made his heart clench painfully, as it often did now while thinking of John and his crew.  
  
The letter read:  
  
 _Dearest Mycroft,  
  
It is with utmost urgency and care that I write this letter to you, my son, for I fear for the safety of my loving family.  You must come to understand that my concerns are largely able to be chalked up to fantasy, but they do so have such a solid base in reality that it almost pains me to write it out.  But I would not tell you otherwise, for the fear is as great as a storm upon the ocean.    
  
During our travels to Spring Bay, it came to my attention that Sherlock had picked up an imaginary friend.  This bothered me little, for I know that Sherlock is a special child and is dealing with the grief of losing a loved on in the only way a child’s mind knows how.  For this reason, I did not push the subject, until I became fully aware that his friend was a most dangerous predator, and that our young Sherlock had caught the beast’s attentions fully.  You must believe us that we did not know that he told the truth when he said he had found a sea bound friend, for if we had I never would have allowed for him to return.  I wrote it off as him finding tiny sea life in the baths of the Virgin Gorda, but that was not so.  In our grief we were relaxed in our attentions to young Sherlock, and for whatever reasons, he has become the sole focus of a brightly colored, golden Merman.    
  
Do not dismiss my warnings as easily as I’m sure you are scoffing them in this moment, I know my children well and my sons, for what I write down to you is the truth.  I myself would have written the whole thing off as folly when your Mother originally told me, wailing and panicked as she was, had I not later come to see it for myself.  It was because of this panic that we fled from Spring Bay to ship in hopes of outrunning the beast.  That the sudden change in location would strain the unwanted affections of the fish-bred brute.  But it was not as effective as we had hoped, and upon the 12th day at sea aboard The Byron, I saw the beast swim along side the ship as a shark circles its wounded prey.    
  
The Merman was a threat to Sherlock, I swear it.  I would have done anything I could to protect him, and when I found that Sherlock had called to the beast using a small shell whistle about his neck, I took it from him and flung it back to the sea, headless of the young boy’s cries.  Believing this to be the end of our worries, I returned to my cabin with the young Sherlock, confident that I had thwarted the beast.  The calm only lasted a few days, however, as I soon discovered that somehow Sherlock had recovered the lost necklace and was once again in contact with the Merman.  I had no choice: I used Sherlock as bait for the monster, luring him upon the low deck so that I might have had hopes at capturing it, killing it before it killed one of my last remaining sons.  The plan worked, to a degree, and I attempted to dispatch it with my trusty pistol when the fight grew out of hand.  I struck it at close range just above its blackened heart.  
  
Although I hit it, I do not believe that I killed it, though such a grievous wound surely would put a damper on its movements in regards to defense and fighting.  When the fray started after I’d shot it, I quickly gave signal for Sherlock to be removed from battle, and I tried to deal with it before it managed to escape overboard the side of the ship and back into the waters.  Knowing that there was the slightest of chances that it lived, I once again returned the shell about Sherlock’s neck to the sea and tried to calm the wailing boy.  I pray everyday that I breathe that my actions will be enough to protect him, save him from a watery fate.  
  
Please, Mycroft, look after your brother.    
  
Your mother and I will not be able to protect him from the evils of the world forever, and I suspect that our time may grow short upon this world, for my hands are now stained with blood of the sea.  Tend to him in love, my son, and know that you are loved as much as Sherlock from both of our hearts.  Promise us to take care of him, please.  And love him as we love you both.    
  
With Deepest Regards, Your Father:  
Admiral Sydney Siger Holmes  
The Byron - British Royal Navy_  
  
By the time Sherlock finished reading the letter, his hands were shaking and he didn’t know if it was from the realization that he’d potentially once known John as a child or that his father was the one who had dealt the scar to his aquatic friend.  Perhaps it was a combination of the two, added onto the already raging fire within his mind that it was because of him that John was always hurt.  Always wounded, captured, thrust into the fires built from rage and hate and pain.    
  
But no.    
  
No, no, this couldn’t be the same Merman, this couldn’t be John.    
  
He refused to believe it!  This was not his John!  
  
“John’s scar is new, fresh only months ago!  It can’t be the same Merman Father claims bewitched me at Spring Bay.”  He said with resolute decision, his own insistence in the matter trying to convince himself as much as he was Mycroft.  “It is merely coincidence, a family member of John’s perhaps.  But this is not John.”    
  
“He is, Sherlock.  Your John is the same as your old friend from Spring Bay.  John has known you from childhood and has followed you.”  Mycroft whispered softly, gently, before taking a long drink out of the tumbler at his elbow.  “And although I cannot confirm it until I lay eyes upon him once more, I will say with whatever part of me believe in fate that this is most certainly the same Merman.”    
  
Sherlock sputtered indignantly, searching for a witty remark when Mycroft ignored him and continued on in his explanations without pause.  It was a habit of Mycroft’s, to ignore him when he floundered in speech, and had always rubbed him the wrong way.  Now it only served to irritate him further, his blue eyes narrowed in spite.    
  
“Do you know how exactly you survived Father’s ship sinking into the abyss?” His brother asked suddenly, almost randomly, the topic change not escaping Sherlock’s notice.  “Do you know how you and you alone survived when you cannot swim, and there were hundreds of older men and stronger swimmers aboard?”    
  
“You know I do not, Mycroft.  I was dealt a head wound by falling timber aboard the deck when Mummy attempted to place me in a long boat.  The first thing I can remember is waking in your bed and cabin a week or so later.”  Sherlock gave a dismissing wave.  “But what does that have to with anything of importance?”    
  
“Because I found you in that things arms, Sherlock!  It kept you above water despite the injuries Father’s pistol had dealt it, making sure you’d been placed up and out of the water aboard rift-raft it’d found from the wreckage!  I saw him with my own eyes!”  Mycroft roared as he ran a nervous hand through his hair roughly, pulling at the thinning locks.  “I was there to fish you from the water and the clutches of that beast’s claws, instructions given to me from Father himself to protect you!  I did my duty!”    
  
“But John’s wound...”  Sherlock whispered, struck my Mycroft’s uncharacteristic display of affection and emotions.  “It is new, I have seen it in close.  It is not as old as I nearly am.  It is a young wound.”    
  
“They are not human, Sherlock, you must remember this.  Their bodies do not react like ours do to wounds, do not heal like ours.  And indeed their skin is not like ours, since it has to have the ability to stay in the water for their entire lives.”  Mycroft finally was winding down, sighing as if put upon more than he could handle.  “John is your Merman, and he has been with you for a very long time.  He always has been.”    
  
“Then why did I not see him after Father’s ship was sunk?  When I needed him the most!  When I needed a friend!” It was Sherlock’s turn to be outraged out, offended, defensive, hurt.  “Why can’t I remember John at all?”    
  
“I believe it was probably the head wound you were dealt, Sherlock.  When I found you in the water, the ship’s surgeon told me you had a very high chance of never waking back up.  It is no wonder you don’t remember much before the incident.  When you did not ask, I did not mention it.”  Sherlock refused to meet Mycroft’s eyes, refused to look at him and see the sadness he could hear in his voice.  “He was probably there with you still regardless of my influence, hiding just out of my sight for fear of harm.  But there none-the-less.”    
  
“And when I returned to England?  Was he to follow me then?”    
  
“No doubt he waited for you to return, because I doubt even he could make such a trip by himself.  And he is by himself.”  The slight shifting of papers as Mycroft moved against his desk, standing up and walking around the massive wooden bench to approach Sherlock.  “He has waited for you for a long time.”    
  
“He waited for me?”    
  
Mycroft seemed to ignore the question in favor of not repeating himself.    
  
“Father’s letter indicated he’d given you a small shell necklace, a whistle.  He threw it back to the sea when he realized where it had come from, but you recovered it somehow a few days later.”  Sherlock nodded, not fulling knowing how, but knowing that John most likely delivered it back to him in the evenings.  The time of day John had first been noticed off the side of his ship.  “Do you know what the shell’s meaning is?”    
  
“The Clutch, you mean?  It is a way to talk to John because he cannot speak human languages.  We couldn’t communicate until it was given to me...given back to me, as it were.”    
  
His brother hummed in acknowledgement as he stepped up beside Sherlock fully now, his eyes trained on the painting at the far wall but somehow just as distant as Sherlock felt.  He knew the face of thought his brother often wore when he was scheming, planning, strategizing within his own head.  It was a technique he’d taught to Sherlock while they were still together in those few months after Father’s ship had gone down and Sherlock adjusted to the fact that now it was only him and Mycroft left, that Father and Mummy had gone to keep Sherrinford company in Heaven.  He’d been very quiet and very resolute in those few months, hardly speaking to anyone, Mycroft included, until his brother had devised little ways of catching his attention and drawing him unwittingly into a conversation.    
  
Now was one of those times.    
  
“That’s a part of it, I suppose.  But a -Clutch, you said?- is so much more than that, Sherlock.  It is much like what values or ideas humans put behind the idea of wedding bands and vows, though I’m fairly sure that it’s quite different.  More like a representation of a bond, a tie that binds two souls together across the dire plain.  A soul mate, even, a soul bond that you and you alone share with John.”    
  
Sherlock stared at Mycroft as if he’d sprouted another head.  
  
“You suggest that I am married to John?  A Merman?”  He said slowly, as if his brother had become stupid as suddenly as this whole conversation had started.  “That I am his, what?  Husband?”    
  
“Misconstruing my words has always been a talent of yours, hasn’t it, brother dear?” Mycroft gave another great sigh as his far gaze broke and he turned his dark eyes to Sherlock.  “Trying my patience, surely.  I did not say that you were married, I said that the Clutch and wedding rings share similar idea roots.  That hardly means you’re to make an honest man of a fish.”     
  
“Sarcasm is the lowest form of wit, Mycroft.”  Sherlock snipped back out of sheer frustration, his brother only growing more and more confusing by the second.  “Just say what you mean already!”    
  
“The Clutch, Sherlock, is a way to show loyalty and commitment to a bond that spans much more than the field of emotions can even attempt to comprehend.  John knows the bond when he first saw it, even though you were small, and acted accordingly.” Mycroft’s eyes gave a merry twinkle.  “You too responded without knowing, did you not?”    
  
Sherlock grumbled under his breath as he turned his back to his preening brother.  
  
“You would let the bond break so easily, Sherlock?  Break Destiny?”    
  
“Never.”    
  
And he meant it.


	21. The Restless Waves

Commandant Jim Moriarty was by nature a curious predator.  
  
Which meant that in order to fully satisfy himself when he finally caught hold of his prey, he had to know everything about them.  What sort of tea they liked, why they had children, where they preferred their ale from; the works.  So not being able to get all of these relevant facts out of John the Merman upon capture was at best irksome and at the worst completely infuriating.  He needed to know why John looked so different from the other hideous Mermen in the society of the Isles.  He needed to know who had done the damage to his shoulder and just how they managed it.  And he bloody well needed to know just why John had chosen Sherlock of all people to show himself too.  After all, wouldn’t it be smarter to show yourself to someone who had it in their power to protect you, feed you, and allow you to hunt whenever the situation called for it?    
  
So then why had the story played out like it had, if there were such inconsistent variables that had yet to be accounted for?  These questions, and indeed quite a few more, were a constant buzz in Jim’s skull and were starting to really give him a headache.  And no one cared for his company when he had a full blown migraine going, which was what was threatening to rear its ugly head.    
  
Jim sighed.    
  
“Commandant?”  Moran’s voice was always the same even tone, even when he was upset of flustered.  In fact, Moriarty had never even heard him raise his voice for the most part, unless it was needed to belay orders.  “The Merman has been brought ashore.  What do you want done with him?”    
  
Moriarty thought about it of course, he had long before he’d given to order to Moran to have John brought here, but the problems he faced while trying to keep the thing chained up were greater here than even on the boat.  He had to take into account the fact that it was much stronger than humans were, and that his body held more muscle mass and was greater in length, not to mention when angry the beast seemed to call upon every ferocious and feral instinct it had.  Combine all those facilitation problems with the fact that he had no idea if there were any completely closed off pools in the entire Isle and the need for the Merman to be in water in order to breathe, and you’d only be facing about half of the problems Moriarty was at that very moment.  Because as usual, his brain was moving almost eight moves ahead of everyone else’s.  Which wasn’t a lot by his standards, but was more than plenty against the likes of semi-intelligent fish people.    
  
But he rather needed a solution to this problem, and he needed it now.    
  
“If I may suggest, sir?”  Moran ventured, never overstepping his professional boundaries by outright telling Moriarty anything, but first asking permission to help him with whatever he was working on mentally, and Moriarty nodded.  Sebastian was more than well aware that Jim could always best him in the intellect department.  “There is a rather large pile at the very end of the dock, nearest the rocks, driven into the depths of a rather shallow pool surrounded on almost all sides.”    
  
“Yes, do continue.”  Jim instructed, waving at Moran over his shoulder, not quite getting what he was suggesting but having the faintest of brushes of an idea forming.  “What about the pool?”    
  
“Well, Sir, it is secluded from the others of the Isle and can be easily guarded by your men, while being nearly impossible to swim to or from by anything aquatic due to the shallow depth and the jagged rocks.”  Sebastian continued, dipping into his stash of dry snuff as he talked.  “If you were to chain him to the piling there, he could not break or pull away from it, and he’s not strong enough to bend metal by himself.  He would still be in the water, safe and sound, unable to hide or go anywhere.”    
  
Moriarty clapped his hands once in delight, a bright smirk flashing across his face as he did so.  It was a rather good plan, he thought, and not for the first time Jim was glad he’d chosen the rougher man for his Commander when no one else would have him.  His insight into his surroundings were unmeasurable in both words and gold, and his dedication to his ship, crew, and Captain were unparalleled in any other man on the sea.  Plus he knew his position well and rarely overstepped his boundaries when carrying out his duty.  Jim had never had to publicly flog him before, though they had gotten into a number of small verbal spars over the years, and had considered no other person suitable for the job -no the position- that Moran filled.  He was invaluable, even to someone like Jim Moriarty.    
  
“That will work perfectly, Seb!”  He hummed his approval of the plan as he almost hopped up off the rocks he’d been sitting on thinking for a majority of the last hour or so, having become inquisitive about the Isle’s structure upon waking that morning.  “Do your think then, and make sure he won’t go anywhere.  Irons on his arms should work wonders, and use the great chain for added measure.  It seems to work better, after all.”    
  
“What of Tethys?”  Moran asked as he bent at the waist only slightly, his own form of acknowledgement, one eyebrow raised curiously.  “Surely her majesty has been anything but complacent since her reassignment.”    
  
“Oh, I think she’s a bit put out, but nothing we can’t handle.”  Jim responded while he gave off some undignified squawks of laughter into the back of his sleeve, his regal coat adding to the picture he was sure he was making for his crew.  “All in all, she’s be rather good about staying put where the crew can keep an eye on her.  Even though I know that she could swim under the netting and back out into the bay at any time, I think the magic keeps her in place.”    
  
“But not complacent.”  Moran was smirking now too, his eyes twinkling brightly.  “At least she’s still a challenge for you.”    
  
“True, true.  I hate to be bored.”    
  
And Moriarty did.  He hated, hated, hated to be anything close to resembling bored.    
  
Moran knew it.    
  
“Speaking of which, why don’t we wander on down there and pay her majesty a visit?”  Jim continued on gleefully, waving at Moran eagerly.  “I’m sure by now we have something to talk about!”    
  
Sebastian only hummed his supposed agreement.   
  
\--  
  
“I am the Matriarch of this society, the Queen of Mermaid Isle!  I bow to no one!”  Tethys hiss out as she flashed her tail again, beating it against the underwater planking of the docks Moriarty stood on, the same reaction from her since he’d arrived down here a good ten minutes prior.  It didn’t faze Jim any.  “And I certainly do not bend to their will!  Answer your own questions, mortal!”    
  
“All I want are answers, Tethys.  Call me...curious.”  Jim hissed out, patience wearing dangerously thin the longer he spent time in this wretched thing’s company.  Her beauty was a thing of nightmares now, and he wanted results now. “You will answer my questions about John, and then we can continue on our merry way?  Ay, what do you say?”    
  
Play time was over and Daddy’d had enough now.  
  
“I do not know this John you speak of!  You say his name and yet it means nothing to me!”  Tethys did another one of those tail flips, the quick silver movements of her tail splashing water at Jim, his frown morphing into more of a scowl.  “And I will not be badgered into the will of a mere mortal!”    
  
“Alright, see, look here.” He started happily, but his face changed half-way through, the lizard like mask ripping away to show his true underbelly, his ferocious nature, and his clear impatience.  “You will answer my question, all of them, without further complaint, or I’ll kill you now and have my Commander here turn you into a jacket for me to wear.  Does that get through that thick Mermaid skull of yours, Tethys dear?”    
  
Tethys’ movements stilled as she glared daggers at Moriarty.    
  
But she had grown unusually silent.    
  
“Good, good!  Now then, John is the lovely fellow we had drug in here earlier and chained to the long pier just down the way here.”  The Commandant explained slowly, a sign of mockery to Tethys’ intelligence, even though he knew she was very smart.  “The lovely bloke with the sunburst scar on him.  Now, what I want to know, is why you and your colony don’t like him.  Why was he banished?  And why does he look so god damn different from all of you?”    
  
“Humans have such pathetic names for their people.  His name is not John, it is Ladon, and he was cast from our society when I took my rightful place as ruler and Queen of the Isles.”  Tethys spat with hatred, as if John’s true name left a bad taste in her aquatic and teeth-filled mouth.  “Ladon is the child of Brizo and Phorcys, the previous rulers of the Isles.  He and his siblings were driven out or killed when I came to claim the throne, for being inferior and spawn of an unworthy mate killed by humans.    
  
You see, Brizo is my matron as well, but she took a different mate to create my line after Phorcys was captured and killed.  Volturnus, one of the great guards to Triteia -the daughter of Triton and my Grand-Matron- was her second mate when Phorcys was murdered.  Phorcys was week and produced strange offspring, the males and females all looking alike instead of the females being beautiful and the males being stock, as things should be.  Some of the males could even speak a few words and wished to search for a Human Clutch Bearer, Ladon was one of those.  When I succeeded the throne by killing and devouring Brizo, I took it upon myself to rid the population of the weak and strange.”    
  
“So his beauty is a genetic oddity, like I had expected?  He’s the odd one out of your little group, not the other way around.”  Jim hissed out, fascinated by the strange and murder filled tale, science and scenarios running rampant through his head.  “But a few of the offspring escaped, out into the open waters?  John, and one of his siblings that was captured in Tortuga a while ago for luring a bar maid to the water’s edge, and probably a few more still hiding deep beneath the waves, just out of sight.  You did not complete the job.”    
  
“Once they were out of the home we’ve had for centuries there was no need to kill them.  Other colonies will not take them in, for they know the danger of outsiders and strange offspring well, and they will be forced to live in solitude if Humans do not hunt them first.”  Tethys flashed a dangerous grin filled with a thousand sharp and jagged teeth.  “There was no need to expend energy hunting for them when the outside world would do my job for me.  That Ladon and his few siblings that escaped lived this long is truly unfortunate.  That you brought him back here, to my kingdom, even more so.”    
  
“You would see him killed for his lineage, then?”  Moriarty was earnestly curious now, both about John -Ladon- and just how Tethys had ascended the thrown of her Matriarchal Society.  “Even though he could be an asset when dealing with humans?”    
  
“He is dangerous in his strangeness, and worthless as a potential mate because of it to any of our kind.  Not to mention he is grievously wounded now and even more undesirable because of it.”  She responded with a air that reminded Jim of the English monarchy back home, aloof and uncaring in such a petty dispute.  “I would feast upon him myself, yes.”    
  
Jim was a predator, and his smirk proved it so.    
  
“What if I were to offer you the chance to take your revenge upon him, Tethys?”  He purred the last bit of her name out through his teeth, her confusion evident in the pale green of her inhuman eyes.  “What if I gave you his death, and we feasted upon his flesh together?  I had already planned his death, and there is far too much of him for me and my Commander alone.”    
  
“You would devour his flesh?”  Tethys sounded vaguely nauseous at the very prospect.  “I would do it because it is my duty to not allow his inferior matter to infect our waters.  It is not a pleasure, but a requirement to my service to my people.  And yet you say you would do this freely?  Why?”  
  
“Because I’m completing something with a...friend of mine.”  Sherlock, oh the man who fell for a beast of the waters only to be claimed in slumber by them.  Poetic really.  “He is dead, and I will fulfill the promise I made to him.  I would do so by eating John, eating Ladon.”    
  
“Your ways are strange, mortal.  But I see merit and strength in your choices.”  Tethys slithered through the water closer to the dock’s edge, keen eyes watching, assessing.  One pale hand extended and Moriarty saw the intention before taking it firmly, his hand in her claw.  “I will accept your deal, and in return, you may not hurt any of my people or myself.  You will have Ladon and no one else.”    
  
“Ah, you wound me, dear Tethys.  But you have yourself a deal.”  Moriarty felt a sudden serge of something strong and ancient wrap itself around his pinky finger, eyeing it carefully in time to see a small red band appear there where the magic agreement settled in.  “Now, let the games begin.”


	22. Home, The Ocean Breeze

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> lus Water shows, and lots of Cirque du Soleil references involved here and in the future, and you can watch many of the full shows on there if you know where to look. I’ve fallen in love with Varekai and Quidam is another personal favorite. 
> 
> http:// www. youtube. com/ watch? v=M06t0uIkMf0& feature= related
> 
> Enjoy!

“Have you decided what you’re going to do now, Sherlock?”  Mycroft asked delicately, unsure of how his mostly-silent brother was going to respond, now that he knew the truth about him and their late Father.  He could explode and turn murderous, or he could agree and leave John be and instead go after Moriarty like he should.  “Will you seek out John or Moriarty?”    
  
Sherlock’s eyes were focused off in the sea somewhere, far beyond the walls of Mycroft’s cabin, analyzing the issues at hand.    
  
“There is no reason I cannot go after both together, Mycroft.  Jim Moriarty has John in his plans somewhere, and I will not allow for anyone to harm John.”  He took a deep breath and turned to look at Mycroft over his shoulder icily.  “Not when I can stop Moriarty.”    
  
“Hmm, I see.”  Mycroft was concerned, of course.  He was always concerned about Sherlock’s welfare, it consumed his waking thoughts sometimes.  This wasn’t some exception.  “Tell me what you need then, Sherlock.”    
  
“You know what I need, I will not beg for it.”  
  
“I had no intention of making you beg, brother dear.”  Mycroft said with another sigh before taking a small bite from his tea cake, Sherlock’s own portion as untouched as his tea was.  The cup that had once been steaming was now long cold, and Mycroft’s own cup had been refilled almost twice now.  “I merely asked for insight into that mind of yours.  Even I cannot read minds.”    
  
Sherlock made a sound that sounded suspiciously like a snort as he turned around fully now, coming to flop down into the chair across from Mycroft’s desk.  Anthea had had some of the other crew members bring it in for him once she and one of the galley staff delivered tea and a light breakfast.  By now they were onto mid afternoon tea, and Sherlock had yet to say or eat very much at all.  And by doing so, Mycroft had been unable to understand fully how Sherlock was taking all of the news he’d been given.  Which blinded him to his normal trait of omniscience when it came to Sherlock’s behaviors and potential actions.  Which was why Mycroft hadn’t seen the festering hurt lashing out in all directions until Sherlock finally turned to face him.    
  
At that, Mycroft did sigh.    
  
“Don’t let the sweets go to your head, Mycroft dear.”  Sherlock snarled out in hurt, but there was no real anger behind the words.  “I’d hate to have to clean your large head up off the deck when you fall down and can no longer pick yourself back up.”    
  
“It’ll hardly go anywhere but my gut, Sherlock.” Mycroft smirked at his witty response, regardless of the fact that it was at his own expense, the familiarity of the spiteful comment a reassurance that his brother hadn’t gotten lost in his own mind.  “You should have the basic understandings of biology by now.  Certainly you should know this?  And even if that happens, at least I’ll float.  Or have you since learned to swim while in the company of your fishy friend?”  
  
Sherlock grit his teeth.    
  
Telling Mycroft about John had probably been a mistake.  
  
Reminding Mycroft that he still couldn’t swim was probably worse.     
  
“I have tried.”  He said simply, turning his back to Mycroft’s smirking visage once more, starring out over the storm-darkened waves.  The sea was expressing its discomfort at the entire situation, and was about to let loose its emotional turmoil upon them all.  “It did not go to plan.”    
  
“You mean you floundered in the surf like some damsel while the fish-man of your dreams kept you from a most unpleasant death?”  Mycroft did laugh at that, though it was short and sharp in sound, and was enough to raise Sherlock’s hackles in a moment’s breath, a feat most have to really work at.  “How utterly and tragically predictable of you.”    
  
“Do shut it, Mycroft.”  Sherlock snarled back, trying a different tactic this time.  “Your idle chat does annoy me so.”    
  
Mycroft sniffed arrogantly before standing in one graceful motion, his great coat sweeping against his fine leggings and well-tailored clothing gently and dramatically.  He looks like some high-end lord, like their father had when his position required formal dress, and the image overlapped with hundreds of others in Sherlock’s brain.  The shiny, well tended buttons and metalwork on the cuffs and front of his elaborate outfit caught the glinting light enough to shine and dazzle him, momentary blindness a concern when the dancing light caught his still sensitive eyes in quick bursts.  It was a facade designed to attract and divert attention, towards Mycroft’s flamboyant nature and away from his razor sharp intellect.    
  
“You know, Sherlock dear...”  
  
“Don’t, Mycroft.”  Sherlock interrupted with a definitive movement.  “My heart cannot take it.”    
  
“Regardless of whether or not your heart can bear it, it doesn’t change the fact that I must be the one to say it.  I wouldn’t be your brother if I didn’t.”  Mycroft folded his hands regally in a pose so close to Sherlock’s own that it was far past mocking and leaning towards condescending.  “He’s a feral, mythological creature, Sherlock.  He is not some pet or friend you’ve met, he’s not as simple as a mute or a cripple.  He’s a wild beast, and pain, fear, loneliness...they all change beasts, and not always for the better.”    
  
“All of the pain, misery, agony, and loneliness inflicted upon him and it changed him, yes Mycroft.  But it didn’t change him like it would change us, oh no, it only made him kinder, gentler, and more loving.” Sherlock let his left hand grip at the shirt fabric above his heart, brushing his wounded side as it passed.  “John’s not like us, and he never will be.  He’s inhuman in the most literal of senses, and sometimes I think we forget that about him, that it is not something we are used to dealing with.  His kind is vicious and can turn deadly, but he restrains himself and loves without hesitation.”  
  
“Sherlock, this may be true, but that doesn’t mean underneath it all he still isn’t a hungry beast at heart.” Mycroft sighed heavily before turning to meet Sherlock’s inquisitive stare.  “I would put a bullet in him myself before I let him devour you like some crumpet at one of the King’s royal balls.”    
  
Both Holmes smirked in their own way at that slight, but neither let it detract from the seriousness at hand.    
  
“What would you have me do then, Mycroft?”  The air was tense, holding its breath waiting for the elder Holmes’ response.  “I will not abandon him to a fate worse than a simple death.  I cannot.”    
  
“I would ask you too, but I know it to be futile in gesture.”    
  
“Your point?”    
  
“My point is, Brother Dear, that you have an Armada at your disposal.  What do you plan to do?”    
  
\--  
  
The sea was very rough when they finally figured out how to use the stolen Clutch taken from the dead Mermaid in Tortuga to navigate themselves safely to bay using a combination of Sherlock’s blood, strong-willed intent, and some Old World Magic that one of Mycroft’s numerous crewmen practiced regularly.   The man himself didn’t speak except for the mumbled incantation used to enchant the ruins painted on the helm of the ship and the rudder, their ruby glow eerie in the stormy grey of the sky.  It guided the boat un-handed through the waves without question, pushing an already absurdly quick ship past known speeds and into the realm of the supernatural.  It was without a doubt, the quickest ship ride that Sherlock and Mycroft had ever undergone, but speed was a necessity, and time was of the utmost.  Mycroft said nothing and neither did his crew, even when Sherlock took to riding at the foremast for hours on end.    
  
Moriarty’s ship easily spotted from its dark shadow cast into the tremulous surf beneath it when the rocky coast broke inland to reveal the famed Mermaid Isles, the enchanted lands desolate and completely barren.  Sherlock was surprised at the lack of greenery or mythical landscapes, disappointed hardly being a word he’d often used, though he had to admit that it’d come to mind upon first glance.  Weren’t all fairytale beauties to be surrounded by lands as beautiful as they were famed to be?    
  
“Appropriate surroundings, really.”  Mycroft said under his breath as he came to stand next to Sherlock as they overlooked the bay, the Minor Imposition hidden just out of the line of sight for Moriarty’s ship, but not the other way around.  “Appropriate and fitting.”    
  
“What is fitting, Mycroft?”    
  
“That such barren, ugly lands house such truly ugly beasts.” Mycroft said it with venom in his voice, eyes flashing and snarling at the rocky terrain.  “I can think of no better home for monsters than a rocky crevice in the depths of a black sea.  An ever waiting tomb, you might say.”    
  
Sherlock gave a great snort.    
  
“A watery grave, how poetic Mycroft.  I never took you for a romantic.”  Sherlock could indeed flounce and be suave when the occasion called for it, and it was time.   “But tell me, how are we to do this?”    
  
“Who are you and what have you done with my brother?”  
  
“I’ve shipped him off to Antigua, of course.” Sherlock sighed, rolling his eyes as he looked dead on at Mycroft again.  “What were you expecting of me, Mycroft?  I have asked out of necessity.”  
  
“I was simply expecting you to go in pistols ablaze, not think this out like a semi-rational human being...  Well, if you can be called that.”  A heavy sigh punctuated the stormy air about them, a sea swell banging against the hull of the ship and then the rocks further out.  “My little brother, all grown up.  I’m so proud.”    
  
“Ha, bloody ha, Mycroft.  Just get me onto that shore.”    
  
“Your demands are ever at my disposal, Sherlock.”    
  
“That’s more like it.”  


	23. Sing The To Thy Rest

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Dead Pirate Lore courtesy of the myth of Blackbeard and his swimming around his boat after his own supposed "death" and beheading. The idea that pirates are afraid of returned captains comes from that. 
> 
> Thanks for waiting! Enjoy!

  
It was easier said than done, to sneak ashore on such a rocky coast, one surely filled to the brim with crevices, hidden caves, sinks, and jagged daggers waiting just below the churning surface of the dark waters.  The boats themselves were no match for the treachery of the rocky beaches themselves, and even in groups landing anywhere but the narrow docks that housed Moriarty’s own long boats seemed almost out of the question. Of course they couldn’t take that course of action, logically.  It was more than suicide, and without the element of surprise, Sherlock and Mycroft both feared that whatever plan they did concoct would fail before it ever really took off.  That was something they really couldn’t afford in the long run.  Not with how wounded Sherlock was, even if he played it off and repeatedly told Mycroft that he was just fine, not to worry.  It wouldn’t help if they got into trouble before they even reached the shore or the confrontation.    
  
And though Sherlock often called his brother blind, Mycroft could see when Sherlock would pause in the midst of a perfectly ordinary task to nearly double over in pain, one hand pressed to his side where he was most wounded.  The puncture in his side was thankfully remaining clean and healing normally according to the ship’s medic, but the threat of infection was still a looming ire with a hurt that size.  Couple that with how hard Sherlock was pushing himself physically, and it was a wonder he hadn’t collapse from both pain and fatigue yet.  Though Mycroft knew his brother better than most, even he was unable to predict just what he’d do in his obvious desperation to save something that Mycroft was sure had been lost.  It was true that he held no love for John, but a brother’s unending love was another matter entirely, and even a Holmes knows when to stick to their guns despite the odds.  Mycroft’s faith in Sherlock would have to be enough to support them all through this horrid affair.    
  
So Mycroft attempted to plan a different way.    
  
The results were the same.    
  
Upon further far-reach recon, it was deemed next to impossible to land anywhere on the coast besides the allotted docks.  Not just because of the rocky shoreline itself, but the way the rest of the cliffs just sheered off twenty or so feet above the point of contact.  It was hidden well among the same colored rocks against a gloomy, cloud filled sky, and would have brought about a swift end for any foolish enough to fall for the illusion.  So with a heavy sigh, Mycroft began plotting their course of action through the heart of the docks while Sherlock rested in his bed.    
  
He’d forced to him to rest, of course, it wasn’t like Sherlock would every willingly give his body what it truly needed, especially not now, but at least after a minimal amount of argument, Sherlock had acquiesced.  Now he was laying on top of the sheets in Mycroft’s cabin enjoying a fitful slumber while Mycroft watched over him.  The elder Holmes had no presumptions that included Sherlock being confident that his brother would keep him safe, but it did not hurt to indulge in at least one secret family fantasy where everything in their lives wasn’t as truly dismal as it always seemed.  And even if Sherlock didn’t know about the swear to him that came from his now-silent brother, Mycroft would keep the unsaid promise.    
  
And when Sherlock woke, the plan would unfurl.    
  
\--  
  
The row into shore was ghastly, filled with perils and a brewing storm the likes of which neither Captain had ever seen before.  Even with the help of Harry -who’d shown up half-way into the journey to the rocky coast- and his men, the entire plan was liable to go belly up within minutes.  All it would take was one fell stroke, one misplaced oar or one out of tune sailor and everything could end in a bloody disaster.  And it was meant literally, bodies smashed upon the rocks for beasts of the sea to feed upon.  Because let there be no doubt, even if they weren’t seen, Sherlock and Mycroft knew that the waters were infested with Merfolk.  Lurking just below the waves, ready to let the sea do the heavy labor for them so they could snatch up the remains in the last moments for a hefty feast.  A watery grave had no more meaning than it did at this very moment.    
  
Beside Sherlock in the boat was his trusted First Mate, Lestrade, and a good portion of his remaining crew, filling up the interspersed boats around them in the water.  Mycroft and Anthea were in a boat paralleled to his own, surrounded by their own crew, and in the boats behind them were the ones that Harry and his crew occupied.  In total, there were about ten boats, with around six or seven people in each, give or take a few here and there, and thought it was enough to be considered a small army to them, it was nothing compared to the virtual army of Moriarty and his men.  And, if what Lestrade and Tiny Tim had told him came true, then the Mers were potentially fighting for the mad Irishman as well.  But each one of the men and women’s faces were grim and determined, hair whipped about by the salt and sea, and for a moment Sherlock’s own heart swelled with something he thought was pride-like.  These men and women, pirates all, were willing to die at his side for a cause that was not their own.    
  
Loyalty, bravery, pride, and truth.  Sherlock’s assembled army had them all.    
  
This was the sort of challenge that Sherlock longed for his entire life really.  One he had always hoped for, prayed for, considered dying for...and here at the beginning of the end, Sherlock felt like he would indeed die for it, sitting here in this tiny wooden boat at the mercy of the elements.  Moriarty wasn’t some pushover naval officer that he and his crew could dupe, trick, and then swindled for their goods and loot.  Moriarty was a demon, a devil with a human form, and he would not be tricked the way simple men would.  Oh no, it would take something truly devious and inspired to trick him.  Something special and unreal.  Perhaps even something otherworldly, and Sherlock knew just the thing.    
  
The advantage Sherlock had for being dead was fantastic and absolutely perfect.    
  
He only hoped it would be enough, otherwise being dressed like the dead come rising out of the sea was going to be a pain.  Indeed, already he could feel the sting of the salt water in his wound, even though it was wrapped tight beneath his ripped and powder-stained shirt.  his pants were becoming stiff in places where his body heat rapidly dried the salt water clinging to them, and his face and hair were smeared with sand and grit from the ocean, as well as watery dark muds that served to look like aged blood.  Bits of seaweed had been picked from the bottom of Mycroft’s ship before they’d set off and decorated him in places where it would cling to a dead body floating in the surf, and his already normally sallow skin tones were only brought to death by the dreary, over-cast skies.  The dark would have the same effect upon him, and when anyone saw him, they would hopefully think him a vengeful water ghost back for revenge.    
  
Pirates were very superstitious, after all, and the plan had actually come from neither Sherlock or Mycroft, but from Mike Stammford, who was tending to Sherlock still.  An off placed comment about him looking like “Death Walking” had spawned the whole plan and after much deliberation, both Holmes brothers had agreed that it was worth a shot.  Playing upon guilty men’s already nervous consciouses would only serve them well, and if it weren’t to work, they weren’t down anything but some wet clothing and a bit of seaweed.  From there, Mike and Molly had taken to getting their ailing Captain prepared for his watery role, and even Harry had admitted he looked like the damned.  Now if they could only land without incident, this entire plan was sure to take off all on its own.    
  
Landing the boats along the very narrow pier was a challenge in and of itself due to the now ever growing storm.  The surf had grown in height, the swells almost doubled in size and capping white as they bashed the little boats against one another and the dock wood at every chance, making tying them down more than just a challenge.  They all had to work together to get the boats stable enough to tie to together, long and thick ropes lashing them to the creaking wood of the dock itself as they made their way to the narrow bridge.  But after a lengthy amount of time, all of the assembled parties were seen safely onto the pier and were steadily making their way to the creviced pocked shore with Sherlock,  Mycroft, and Harry in the lead.  Once inside the rocky covering it was mostly a free-for-all due to the fact that none of the three had any clue as to who or what would be waiting for them once inside, but knowing Moriarty, it wasn’t to be pleasant.    
  
It was a nice change of pace when they stumbled first upon a few small groups of men, no more then ten of them, standing around under a single torch that feebly lit the holler they occupied and well away from the water’s edge.  The men were all semi-wet, shivering, and apparently very disgruntled at having to be this close to the mouth of the caves, and were the perfect opportunity to test their drowned spirit role upon.  While Sherlock prepared himself for his big debut, the rest of the men and women hid themselves around the outcroppings, and watched as Sherlock walked into the cave with a shambling grace just as a huge wave caused massive spray onto all on the rocky floors below.  Back-lit with such a massive wave, his already dripping attire was refreshed, and the sea air gave everything an even fishier smell to it than he already had.    
  
When the first man finally spotted Sherlock as he slowly, ever so slowly, walked towards them on bare feet, it was as if the rest had been touched by the sea spirit as well.  They all turned as one to stare down the dead man’s wandering specter, faces rapidly paling and hands shaking as they tried to go for their cutlasses at their sides.  Luckily, none of them had guns, or Sherlock might have been in a bit of a problem, but at such a long range he would be fine.  Especially if all of them even refused to get near enough to him to use them.  They were each taking large steps backwards towards the far exit of the chamber, closer and closer still to the inlet of water that cut beside the path.    
  
For his part, all Sherlock had to do was look like a dead and vengeful spirit.    
  
The groaning and desperate attempts at talking -only without actual sounds coming out of his mouth- were just for his own amusement.    
  
\--  
  
Meanwhile, Moriarty was happily giving Moran his orders to go and retrieve the fishy Tethys and bring her front and center.  He’d grown tired of waiting for the right moment to slay John and then call upon his deadly under-water army, and he was hungering for a bit of bloodshed.  Well, technically it wasn’t bloodshed on his part that was going to occur, since the stipulation of their agreement required that he not actively hurt her or any of her people.  But that didn’t mean that Moran or any of the rest of his crew couldn’t actively hurt them, and he would remain true to his word, their bargain.  He would have John’s blood on his hands and no other.  
  
It suited him just fine.  After all, he did so hate to get his hands dirty.    
  
“You!” She shouted upon being drug up from some watery location where Moran had stashed her in waiting, wild and struggling against the iron the crew had slapped on her for her struggles.  “You dare to defile the contract, to go against your vow!”    
  
Tethys clearly wasn’t happy with the outcome of their bargain, not that he cared much for her plight.  In truth, it was more fun to watch her struggle against the five or so crewmen holding her upright as they walked towards them, each one hanging onto chain and flesh tightly.  Sebastian himself was at her head, a hand clamped tightly in her silvery locks, another clamped tightly against her throat, digging in under the clear gills.  She was thrashing for all her worth but it was doing her little good and more hurt as Sebastian was quickly loosing his patience.  The small dagger making its way out of its sheath at Moran’s belt easily told the Commandant that, never mind his thunderous face.  If she didn’t start cooperating soon, Moriarty thought, she was liable to lose more than just her life in the process.    
  
Watching her be bound to the dry, rocky outcroppings just above the water’s tender hold was all the more pleasing when she realized just what exactly had been done.  What was going to happen to her.  To be able to see her freedom but not quite able to reach it, to ever touch it.  Sebastian had truly outdone himself this time.    
  
“Heathen!  Contract breaking fool!”  She was screeching now, louder and louder and with truly inhuman growls and sounds.  “The magic will rip you to shreds!  You break the contract and your oath!”    
  
“My dear Tethys...the promise was for you and your people from _me_ , never from the _rest_ of my crew.” Moriarty said smirking as he gave his personal rapier to Moran for use, starring down his nose it at the bound she-demon.  “And I need something of a trial run before I outright do this on John or Ladon or whatever you named him.  I haven’t broken my promise.  I won’t be harming any of you, Seb here will.”   
  
She gave another almighty scream and rattled her chains enough to make them and the rocks she was tied to creak and groan, but nothing broke free and all the manacles held fast.  Tethys, despite her inhuman strength and larger size, was held fast with her arms spread wide and her tail bound down.  She looked like a little Water Demon Jesus, which only made Jim’s mirth grow and his sense of completion escalate.    
  
“Well, he’ll be doing it at my instruction.  Written instructions, because I know that if I were to actively or verbally participate in this that the magic would rip me limb from limb.”  He shrugged before seating himself on the rocks just off to one side happily.  “I wrote done the ritual earlier before we made port, long before I made the deal.  I’m not breaking my oath.”    
  
Her screams echoed around the cave.    
  
\--  
  
A ways off,  Sherlock continued to agitate and horrify the crew present to witness his unearthly game, eyes rolling in his skull, his steps uncoordinated and body drenched in sea water and its dregs.  When one attempted to flea past him, they were either felled by his own blade or those waiting just out of sight behind the rocks.  None of the men would ever get past them and back to the main ship and Sherlock knew for a fact that Mycroft, Harry, and the rest of the men would have the same idea in mind.  They were either to be picked off one by one by hidden opponents or flee from Sherlock’s specter dance to the side of Moriarty, who would be trapped against the back of the cave and the large bays of water let in by the design of the isle.  It was the perfect place for an ambush, they’d realized, once they had finally set foot upon land.    
  
Because the caves almost naturally trapped prey on foot against the waters.    
  
And normally they were teaming with teeth-filled-fish.    
  
But the serious lack in water back-up was both a blessing and a curse, because none of them knew just what those denizens of the deep were planning when they were so far out of sight.  They could be anywhere really, waiting for someone to get too close.  Sherlock wouldn’t give them that opportunity.  No, he had much bigger fish to fry...  
  
And then the screaming started.  
  
Long torturous howls filled every available space of the open aired cave, reverberating and traveling around the darkened pockets and across the churning waters before breaking apart upon the incoming tide.  Each one sounded more and more pained than the last, reaching in both volume and pitch before cutting off and starting anew. Howls of the damned, they were, or at least of something distinctly not-human in a vast amount of agony. It went one for more than twenty minutes, by Sherlock’s count, before it ended with one final horror-filled wail and the silence prevailed once more.    
  
Sherlock didn’t know what was worse.    
  
The cries...or the silence. 


	24. Behold My Treasure Fair

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> I've got new fanart for you guys, courtesy of the lovely TugaMaggie aka Mags! Coming soon! It's not done yet, but let me tell you, when you see it, you'll have your socks blown off. I seriously can't wait till it is done.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> We've got a few more bits and pieces of Mer Culture here, as well as some much needed tension, plot development, and foreshadowing regarding the end of this story. 
> 
> We're getting so close! So thanks for bearing with me for the long haul, as well as the ungodly waits!

When the great silver beast had started her unholy screeching, the waters around and below her grew still.  But not just the waters, the air too, as well as all the noises and movement that had been happening as they spoke before.  The entirety of the cave was silent as the Commander began his methodical vivisection of Tethys, right down to the very last Mer, regardless of how hidden they were beneath the surface of the water.  John -who was still bound to the pile tightly some ways off- even froze at the inhuman noises, head just barely peeking up over the shallow waters in the direction the screams were coming from.  He barely moved while the sounds continued, a distinct change from the thrashing and sounds he’d been making on his own just minutes prior.  But as soon as the Matron had started her wailing everyone stilled to listen.    
  
But when the sounds ended with Tethys’s life, the silence continued on so that every small drip of blood, splash of displaced water it created as it sank into the dark, could be heard ringing in the caves.  Waters were stiller than before, if possible when dealing with the ocean itself, and the light from their torches cast dancing shadows wherever one looked.  The only sound was coming from the steady drip, drip, drip of the blood sliding down the rocks and into the water.    
  
“I want a a coat from her, or maybe a pair of gloves or boots.  What do you think, Seb?”  Moriarty said as he hopped down from his perch, the unholy glee ringing through his smirk.  “Is there enough of her tail to make something?”    
  
Sebastian Moran -Commander- was covered in the dank, dark blood, smelling of salt and sea.  The bloody corpse before him hardly looked like the mighty sea siren Tethys anymore, her once beautiful visage twisted in pain, white hair soaked with the deep purple substance that had come pouring out of the first few cuts made.  It was not so different from John’s own blood, the same violet glinting in the dim light as it had on the deck of his ship.  Ink that stained everywhere it touched the water and ground, and would most likely forever ruin the coat and trousers that Sebastian had been wearing at the time.  His boots too, but those were hardly a travesty and could easily be replaced. The coat was the real travesty, and that thought briefly flitted across Moran’s mind as he finished wiping all the blood off his precious blade.    
  
But the clothing and boots were hardly either man’s primary concern.    
  
“I’m sure there’s more than enough of her tail left to do something with, Sir.”  Moran replied calmly as he finished cleaning his blade and replaced it back within its proper sheath, a lazy smirk rolling across his features briefly.  “Once we skin her down, of course, there should be plenty to work with.  I’m not sure how one goes about skilling a mythical snake though.  Any suggestions?”    
  
“I’ll leave that to the experts, Seb.  And by experts, I mean you.”  Moriarty laughed loudly as he finally walked around to face Tethys’s remains, eyeing them speculatively.  It didn’t look very appetizing, sure, but he was willing to choke down just about anything if it was guaranteed to make him live forever.  “Though I’m more interested in how we can cook it.  If the magic will only take if raw.”    
  
“Well, the man you took the Conch from had instructions other than the ones we just executed, right?  Did he not indicate what else we must do?”  Moran knew he was dangerously close to being impudent, but he couldn’t help but pressing, even just a little.    That and it was a legitimate question they needed answered“Or did he stop at such crucial point by dying?  I know that can easily ruin the best of plans.”    
  
“Of course they kept talking!  I’m not some novice, you idiot!  He gave me his secrets.”  Jim shouted suddenly, whirling on Moran, face thunderous and very, very angry.  “No vow of silence or pledge of purity can stop me.  Not when I truly want something!”    
  
There was a heavy pause, the air pregnant with rage.    
  
But as soon as it came on, the emotional swing was gone, and the Commandant was once again smiling at his first mate.  The almost carefree attitude had returned, the bounce int he smaller man’s step showing once more as he bounced from foot to foot in something akin to unbridled excitement.    
  
“He gave me something of instruction.  But it was more of a when to cook it tutorial as opposed to how to cook it.  Perhaps it doesn’t matter, in which case I say we have a good old fashioned cook out!”  Glee and that horrifying smile.  “A bit fiery pit where all can see it.  Yes, kill two birds with one stone, so to speak, or in this case, catch two fish with one canon blast!”    
  
Moran grinned faintly, but it was soon gone again as soon as he took the few steps forward towards the body once more, drawing a different knife this time out of his belt.  He’d need this one for the more delicate work that he was about to do.  This knife was more of a blade really, not something he’d use to fight with, but one he was still intimately familiar with.  Where it rarely got used for the purpose of hunting and skinning  prey, it was still its intended purpose, and for once would actually see the task it was originally made for.  From the look on Morairty’s face when he caught sight of him drawing the much smaller blade from its home, he understood all too well the inside joke.    
  
In reality, they really only needed a few parts of the now cooling body before them, and he would have to render them from the rest in order to continue with the necessary preparation.  He couldn’t afford to let the open air and the salt interrupt or degrade his Commandant’s wishes, and if that meant more bloody work, then he would do it.    
  
After all, if it hadn’t been for Moriarty taking him in when no one else had wanted him on their ship -let alone as any sort of commanding officer- then he most likely would have ended up court marshaled, or worse, executed for crimes against His Majesty and the great land of Britain itself.  Instead, the small man had sought him out, taken him in, and gave him back his purpose back.  And oh did Jim love the way he executed some of the orders handed to him.  It had been worth it, in the end, more than worth it.  And if carving up a dead Mermaid Matron’s carcass for dining meant that he could follow his Captain forever, then Sebastian was more than willing to go along with whatever he was asked to do.  He was more than prepared to meet the Devil for his actions as it was.    
  
What was one more crime against nature?    
  
A good chunk of meat from the tail for both of them to consume primarily during the first part of whatever ritual the hermit-monk had indicated next, of course, was one of the primary needs.  He had to make sure to get enough from the grisly gore that was now bound to the rocks for them both to eat.  Enough to not only eat, but have just a bit left over.  Moriarty’s written instructions had told him so, and so shall it be, he would follow everything the man said to a ‘T’.  That meant that he had to separate a majority of the scaled hide from the meat and bones holding it together bellow the shining surface, but not take all of it.  Some had to be left on the body as offerings meant for the denizens of the waters and the gods of the tide, while some of it had to be left upon the plate for offerings to the gods of the air and land.  The rest of it had to be consumed, and was the  trickiest part of the entire measurement.    
  
How much of this stinking meat could they really eat until they were full?  How much could they really consume before the taste, texture, smell, or magic got to them?  Would it be like eating other meat, tangy like fish, or robust like lamb?  There wasn’t any telling, and that made his judgement waver only momentarily before he began to work, steadily stripping flesh from bones and scales alike.    
  
Though it wasn’t the only part that they would need, of course, it was a majority of it.  But it wasn’t the entirety of it.  Not by half.  Oh no, they required one more part, the most important part of the entire ritual; the heart.  While the tail held some form of basic enchantment necessary for the ritual to progress from their normal states to the higher states that would allow them prolonged lives, the heart would insure it and seal the wayward spell into their very bodies and bones.  Cast it in stone, was how the Commandant had lyrically put it as he’d waltzed around his cabin after they had acquired the Triton’s Conch.  Make it prominent and perfect and more than the words beautiful and spectacular could ever describe...Moran had to agree.  What they were planning was indeed more than just simply stunning.    
But he never got to clean more than a mouthful of flesh from those salty bones because as he approached the body and dug his knife into the main incision once more, blood rushed down the rocks and into the bay water below.  It splashed slightly but loudly in the silence, more noise in the quiet than had been since they started, and he thought nothing of it.  At first.  He would have continued with his job except that a few seconds after the blood hit the surface of the water and sank beneath it, the stillness that had permeated the air around them for so long erupted.  The water was no longer still, bubbles and waves formed with no known source, and the sounds.  Oh god, the sounds!  
  
The calm waters erupted with movement and more.    
  
Several bodies came launching out of the waters directly below the gore and grime still attached to the rocks.  A majority of them were of varying shades of precious metals, and all of them had exceedingly long hair that was decorated or held back by large shells, gems, gold, precious metals, and lots and lots of other sea products.  Some held seaweed that was woven about their locks as finely as the gems and gold were, others had what looked to be actual living creatures pinning tresses in place.  All of them were more than beautiful, more than gorgeous, and had they not been so frantically and violently thrashing about, Moran might have stopped to observe them before leaping into action himself.    
  
But their beauty didn’t stay for very long, because as each of them launched themselves from the water, their ferocious nature truly emerged, and they began to struggle with one another over the sharp rocks and turning waters below.  There were at least seven of them above the water that they could count, and with how the waters were still turning below them, Moran would say that there were probably more of them below as well, all of them fighting viciously with one another.  Teeth, claws, tails, and their own body strength were soon thrown into the mix, each one as deadly and graceful as the last, the blood that leaked from Tethys into the water only seeming to fuel them on.  Soon their own blood began to mix into the horrible concoction, and like food to a starving beast, there was no stopping the ferocious nature that the blood seemed to unleash.    
  
“Idiot!  Don’t just stand there, get the corpse!  That’s what they’re after!”  Moriarty shouted from just behind Moran, hands shoving and prodding as he himself launched into action by darting out in front.  “Don’t let them get their disgusting hands on it!  We need that!”    
  
“Aye, Commandant!” Sebastian dodged a blow near his knees, jumping over another as they randomly shot out at him.  “I’ll get it!”    
  
Moran had already swung into action, but it was still too late.    
  
The Mermaids still fighting over themselves suddenly turned more of their attentions to Moran and his actions regarding to their dead matron, teeth bared and claws fully prepared to render his flesh from his bones.  Sebastian swallowed, preparing himself, trying to steady his suddenly franticly beating heart.  He was too out numbered here, too out in the open, and both he and his Captain were horribly exposed.  Bad odds in any situation out here, but throw in how incredibly powerful, strong, and fast these beasts were, and the small sliver of a chance that they did had was reduced to almost completely nothing.  He had run the scenario through his head over and over in the past few minutes, and yet he couldn’t find any way to keep both his Captain safe and get the corpse back for them without being grievously injured, or worse, end up dead all together.  Maybe he would just have to risk it...  
  
Four beasts were already fully breached now, snarling visages turned towards them both as they chased after Moran, attentions zero’d in on him as he darted and ducked about furious.  Moran had no doubt that if they got close enough, the deviously planned meal would be horribly reversed on them both.   And instead of Tethys ending up as some sacrificial vessel for them to travel immortality upon, they would end up being the hollowed out shells used for serving up a raw meal for warring sirens.    
  
Two of the largest creatures closest to him were beautiful tones of silver and white, looking much like smaller versions of Tethys herself.  They weren’t quite as big as their matron, or as strong looking, but they were more than enough to take on two much smaller humans with a limited amount of protection.  Another one, just behind the raging silver beasts, was a metallic bronze color, like a shimmering statue made for a harbor or peninsula point, and the last a dusky purple with even darker hair and facial features.  Her skin was as dark as the night itself, and reminded Sebastian of slaves held by the richest of lords, her eyes just as fiery as those of someone in captivity.  Each one of them had a deadly set of claws, while Moran only had his cutlass, a small dagger, his few small skinning knives, and the rocks around them to defend them both.  He was alone against these savages, and for the first time in a long time, Moran thought he felt something like fear.    
  
Because despite Moran’s insistence that the Commandant not take part of the magical bonding ceremony, he did so anyways, and was still under magical oath to not lay a finger on any of the Merfolk in the Isle.  And even though Tethys was dead, the contract was still binding, the decorative red band around Moriarty’s finger still glowing with magical intent.  Which meant that even if he had wanted to help and get his hands dirty, he couldn’t unless he wanted to die.  Sebastian would not sacrifice the only person in the world for which he cared on a task such as this one, even if he was facing the deep himself.  He would meet this problem much as he had done with any other one that came across his path.    
  
Alone.    
  
It seemed that as long as they mostly stayed away from the fighting beasts and the mangled corpse resting on bloody wrists above the water, they paid them little mind.  They seemed the most interested in wrenching the remains from their bonds and into the water with them and attacking one another, rather than they did in pursuing their soon-to-be masters.  The moment that he stepped out into the open to obtain the corpse for his Captain though, that was when all of their combined fury and attention turned on them and they had been deemed a threat.  Four heads and several pairs of eyes whipped towards them at once, catching Moran and Moriarty as they stood off to the side, Moran poised out in front where he’d moved to do as he had been ordered.  Growls and low hissing filled the air in a symphony of sea monsters as they rose from the water together, throwing their bodies up onto the rocks and land, tails whipping powerfully to propel them up onto the land.    
  
Moran drew his cutlass and took a deep breath.    
  
He would go down fighting.  
  
And he would do so alone.    
  
\--  
  
The moment the horrible screeching noises filling the caves subsided, Sherlock took off on slightly unsteady feet, one hand pressed tightly to his injured side.  The nerves that he had been fighting since they’d left Mycroft’s ship had suddenly seemed to resurface with a vengeance, just as his light meal was threatening to return as well.  But he continued to run, knowing full well that the clatters behind him were Mycroft, Lestrade, and the hodge-podge of their combined crews following him wherever he went.  Directly behind them were Harry and his own first-rate crew, their weapons drawn and ready, just as they too followed a half-crazed Captain without a ship into the dark.  It wasn’t what he’d been expecting upon arriving, but it would do.    
  
Because out of all the things he had expected to hear or find upon entering the rocky, cavernous maze of this Isle, it wasn’t the dying sounds of some unfortunate Mer.  One that could potentially be his own John...  
  
Technically speaking, Sherlock was dead.  Dead to Moriarty, to Moran, and to their naval crew that they used.  He was dead and more than taken care of, which left Moriarty with the option to totally ignore the promise of waiting until the predetermined time on their little agreement ran out in order to kill and then consume John.  Which also meant that John could be already dead, or in the process of being brutally murdered.  And if Sherlock could prevent that, if he could stop it, or at least see John before he...before he died, then perhaps his own soul wouldn’t be so lost in the end.  And perhaps he wouldn’t feel so hopeless if what he suspected was true.    
  
He ran faster.    
  
\--  
  
Meanwhile, John -who had gone still and had begun growling seemingly and suddenly out of nowhere- was busy fending off Moriarty’s guards at the water’s edge.  He’d sensed the Matron’s death, of course, and was acting according to how his kind did when their colony experienced hierarchy upheaval.  If the Matron died of natural causes or was killed, the females would fight one another for the position.  If the Matron was challenged, the challengers would face off against the current Matron and then one another until only one was left still alive.  In this case, John’s senses told him that the Matron had been killed, and her body was not in the water, but upon land.  That would mean an all out war among all the females, but primarily those who had the Matron’s bloodline.  And while they would fight, the urge to hide was overwhelming, so John curled up in the shallow rocks and crevices as much as he could, a steady, low whine and growl sounding just as it did from the others of his sex deep bellow the waters around him.    
  
The other males and offspring would also shelter themselves away and hide from the much larger females, who would be busy waging a miniature war upon one another for the position of queen and mother.  They would fight and fight and fight until there was only one challenger left alive or standing, either by killing the competition, or by forfeit of the weaker Mers.  Once found, the new Matron would then consume the remains of the old Matron, thus by ensuing her right to rule, and sealing the magic of the colony under her command.  It was then that the males would really face their own challenges and horrors, because those who held the new and tiny offspring of the last matron would be hunted down and slain, just as the children would be to prevent the old Matron’s direct bloodline from poisoning the colony.  As many as thirty children could be killed at once in this purge, and the males who would not cast their whelps out would join them in the watery death.  The new Matron would then consume flesh from all of the slain, as a show of force and power, before bedding new sires of her own.    
  
And even though John was outcast from the rest of the colony, there was nothing preventing the new Matron from finishing the old one’s duty of destroying him and his kin.  Of hunting him down once more, just as he had been in the first place.    
  
John growled deeper again at the water’s rippling near the jagged inlet opening he was kept in, his teeth showing and single clawed hand at the ready.  His other was still bound to the pillar driven deeply into the treacherous rocks, the keys hung at the belt of one of the humans on the pier in front of him.  Men who were currently shouting at him, human words and angry voices in a language the Merman didn’t understand and couldn’t possibly adhere to.  Men who didn’t seem to care that the beast in the water -while pretty- was ignorant of their human ways.    
  
The Merman cried out as he was struck with rocks.  
  
The men cried out as they were, in turn, struck down by metal.    
  
“John?  Oh god, John!  Is that you?”  Sherlock cried from the shore where he was kneeling from his exertion, the animalistic whines coming from the water in a familiar pitch and tone.  One that made his heart race.  “I’m going to get you out of there!  I’m going to save you!”    
  
And though John the Merman didn’t understand the words, he did know from whom the voice traveled.   
  
John smiled.


	25. Return Unto The Sea

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> So here is the frankly awesome and totally awe-inspiring fanart that the lovely TugaMaggie decided that my story needed. Mags is a wonderful artist, and if you haven’t seen her work you should definitely check her out. (Along with Mari, who is equally fabulous.) So thanks Mags, I’m so grateful for all your hard work, dedication, and art. And I’m glad we’re bros now. -And if you all want to be my bro too, please drop me a line! I’d love to chat with you!- 
> 
> Link: http:// tugamaggie. tumblr. com/ post/ 29331719873
> 
> And Can I just say that sweet baby Jesus on a pogo stick, I’m totally undeserving but OMG I can’t help but just stare that this beauty for long periods of time? I can? Good, because that’s totally what I’m saying. And not just about Mags’ art either, I’m talking about everyone’s. Because all your work that I’ve been sent and seen is absolute perfection. 
> 
> It, along with all the other beautiful and equally gorgeous fanart or fanwork that comes my way will be included in the final, downloadable version of this story. I’ve already started compiling it into a proper PDF version complete with pictures and other tidbits, links, and goodies I believe you’ll all rather like.

Once he’d gotten down into the water from the walkways above, Sherlock realized just how grave their situation really was. Even with the heavy iron manacle removed from John’s arm, the fair Merman couldn’t very well leave the safety of the inlet to make a break for freedom in the open waters, as he’d be a sitting duck for anyone or anything out there to just pick off. Mycroft had brought up a good point on the ship some time before. Why was John not with others of his species? Why was he alone in open waters, no family or living structure present, instead of living in the safety of the inlets here at the Isle? His brother had seemed to think that it had to do with the fact that he was unusual, his behaviors erratic in regards to humans. That these unpredictable actions had made him a type of threat to others of his kind and that they had exiled him for it. If that were the case, he couldn’t be allowed out alone in open waters without someone to watch for him, especially not now. His own kind had the potential to attack him, to hurt him, and Sherlock wouldn’t allow for that. 

On the other hand, he couldn’t just leave John alone either in order to go on and attend to the problem that was Moriarty, due to the fear that others would stumble upon the captive creature and retaliate against him. It was a petty act, sure, but for the likes of Moriarty’s crew it wouldn’t be unheard of or very unlikely. Sherlock knew that John was a weak point in their armor and that he himself would do anything necessary to ensure his safety. Given a tool like that and anyone with a vindictive edge would act. It was a weak point they couldn’t afford to leave open, and if the opportunity presented itself, someone was bound to go after it like sharks to blood in the water. 

But that just left openings for other problems to worm their way in, and the more Sherlock thought on the subject, the more the entire debacle seemed to collapse upon itself. Sherlock was afraid that if he let it, it would bury him and John alive. 

No, he had to move John out of there now. 

John was all over the place as he made his way closer and closer to the piling that bound the Merman into this small inlet, his mighty tail roaring out of the water and slapping around. It was making quite the ruckus, and was flipping water and sea debris all over as the frantic creature attempted to get closer to Sherlock himself. He was beaching himself slowly, ever so slowly, as he worked his way up the sharp rocks that were hidden just below the surface, and every once and a while dark droplets of something splattered against Sherlock’s already water-drenched form. The Captain ignored them for the most part, chalking the inconsistent coloring for some sort of mud or other sea life being turned up just as the waters were around him. But the closer John got, the more the dark, viscous liquid started turning up. 

And Sherlock didn’t really grasp what it was until he had his arms full of a frantic, wriggling Merman, one totting a still chained hand, claws grasping and patting all over him. It was odd to be holding John, because he’d always seemed to shy away from hugging or other displays of affection when it had to due with touching others, or more specifically, other’s touching him. John had never been one for much physical contact before, but even Captain Holmes couldn’t help but notice that when one of the children or crew member became injured or fell, he would often worm his way too them and pat at the injury. On one memorable occasion he’d even licked at a bleeding cut along Tiny Tim’s shin when the boy had tripped himself up in the rigging, and despite the resulting tension and trembling from the boy himself for fear of something horrible happening, John had gone no further than that. He’d merely cleaned the wound in the only way he’d known how, tried to help, and still too this day Sherlock carried the guilt that came with suspecting the worst of John’s innocent attempts at aid. 

He attempted to calm John the best he could, the short frantic melody coming from between jagged teeth hard to sooth when one couldn’t really speak above or around him for fear of shouting. Though after a few moments of man-handling -literal man-handling on John’s part- the fish man seemed to be calming down, clawed hands tangled in a small patch of shirt just at Sherlock’s side, below where his ribcage ended. It wasn’t until pointy fingers started prodding and causing a startling amount of pain, however, that Sherlock realized just where John’s hands had landed and just what he was poking at. The puncture wound to his side gut had begun to bleed again at some point during his jaunt through the caves and coves, and was dribbling down his side and seeping into his shirt. A large scarlet bloom had started spreading through the once white material, and it had to have been the color that alerted John that Sherlock had been injured at all. 

And despite the pain that came with the careful probing, Sherlock was alright with John’s explorations of his battle wound. Because that’s what it was, and would be, even as it lingered into a scar if he survived this day. If he bested Moriarty, he would have proof that he’d gone down with his ship and came back from the Locker to face the corrupt Naval Captain and his crew of black-fingered officers. 

So Sherlock allowed for the checking, prodding, and stroking of the abused and reddened skin around the puncture mark, and then the careful stroking of the hole itself. It would give John something to do while Sherlock took his own turn and looked him over before unlocking the fastenings that kept him on a lead like some dog. At first, he could no longer see where the once present ink-like matter had originated from, though there was some small pooling on the water’s surface of it. The pools floated around them in small ripples, no rhyme or reason to their placement except that they floated too and fro as the water moved. They didn’t seem to originate from John’s torso though, as there were no visible marks besides where the iron cuff had rubbed against the skin on the Merman’s wrist. But now, as John tried to climb further up his torso to continue his wound inspection, Sherlock could see exactly where it was that the dark liquid was coming from.

Blood, it was John’s blood. 

John’s blood coming from wounds he’d either inflicted upon himself making his way up the rocky cropping to meet him, or that someone or something else had inflicted upon him. Small, shallow slits and cuts all over the beautiful golden tail leaked small droplets of the ink into the salty water, dying it every so often the color of moonless nights or deep dark of the caves around them. It made Sherlock’s blood boil. Someone had spilt John’s blood, just as they had spilt his own, and that of his crew. His family. It made his vision so read that it was hard to even seen John or the cave around him through the haze. 

Somehow, he removed the manacle from John’s chaffed wrist and had picked him up out of the shallow waters. The movement strained his arms and side, the muscles around his wound pulling and protesting with sharp stabs of agony, but he would not relent. Sherlock didn’t know how long John could last outside or above the water, but he was going to try to carry him to safety, or find someone who could help. He was not leaving him hear to be killed by someone or something else, especially not now that he knew of the blood. It was like dangling meat in front of starving carnivores, and he knew for a fact that Merfolk -including John- were scavenging meat eaters. If Moriarty’s men didn’t get to him, those monsters in the water would without a doubt. He would not leave John to such a fate. 

The problem was noticeable though, even after only a few steps. John was heavy, and he was also very large. Not massive body size, true, but length wise, and even at Sherlock’s own impressive height, John’s tail still drug the ground where they walked. Add in the fact that they were both drenched in water and god knows what else, and it made for extra weight on them both. Even if Sherlock could get away from any immediate danger, he would not be able to carry him for long. And if he did, he was likely to further injure himself and John. 

“I take it you could use a hand, brother mine?” And suddenly, there was Mycroft, standing there at the dock side, crouched with his arms outstretched and waiting for Sherlock to hand him John so he himself could climb out. “Don’t be foolish enough to think that I’d allow you to undertake this mission on your own.” 

“The thought never crossed my mind, Mycroft.” 

Sherlock felt like laughing as he handed a rather clingy John up to Mycroft, and after a few panicked, sharp notes from John and a disdainful sniff from Mycroft, they made the pass off. John clearly didn’t care for Mycroft, and by the look on Mycroft’s face the feelings were equally returned, but Mycroft would help his brother, and that was good enough for both of them. All they had to do was stand one another long enough for him to get up and out of the water and any time that Sherlock would need assistance. 

“What are you planning on doing with him, Sherlock?” Mycroft watched as his brother slowly got out of the water with a calculating stare. His eyes never missed anything, it seemed. “You cannot return him to the sea yourself, nor do you have that much time. He’s already struggling to breathe.” 

Sherlock’s head snapped up to watch John, whose chest was indeed starting to move more and more rapidly than it had in the water. Clearly the lack of water would be the end of this rescue attempt sooner rather than later. 

“Then I will just have to move quickly with him. I cannot leave him here.” He stood up and shook his hair out a bit, water droplets flying all over the place. Mycroft’s nose wrinkled ever so slightly, but he never said anything. “Either Moriarty’s men will kill him or his own kind will. You were right, they are in the waters circling, waiting.” 

Mycroft’s face took on a pained, almost pinched appearance. 

“Leave John to me and my crew then. I will take him back to the docks, and a few of my men can take him back to sea. They will not leave him, and they will not allow him to fall into the wrong hands.” He nodded at Sherlock. “And you do your duty.” 

Sherlock blinked. 

“Kill the little weasel. Show him no mercy.” 

Mycroft’s snarl was all the encouragement that Sherlock needed. 

\--

Sherlock’s pace was fast as he made his way away from his brother and deeper into the maze that was the Isle caverns, Mycroft and his own men to come behind him as fast as they were able. His boots were still full of water, but the dampness of the leather allowed for a more silent movement than dry ones would. Not that it really mattered, he did not have the element of surprise any long, not with the men who had fled from him earlier, and Moriarty would doubtlessly know of his presence. Couple that with how heavy his breathing was now from the pain and exertion, and it made for an even less stealthy approach. But every little bit wound count, and it if bought him time until Lestrade, Harry, and the rest of the crews arrive, then all the better. He would need every last bit of support. 

As he ran, something horrific started to sound from the depths of the caves before him, working its way to where he was as steadily as he ran. The first time he heard it he stopped dead, considering how much it sounded like an angered version of John. But the closer he got to the source, the more “voices” he heard joining the one he originally heard. Sherlock called them voices, when really they weren’t anything like human voices, they were screeches and horrifically guttural noises that joined one another in some pained sounding wail. But the truth was, Sherlock knew what made those noises. He knew absolutely without a doubt what made those sounds, and that with each new pitch or volume that joined or left the fray, he knew that the beasts making the sounds were great in number. 

The pitch was high, so very high, and more wailing than John’s own.

It made Sherlock shudder. 

Ahead, there were many, many Mermaids. 

Sherlock would not allow this fact to daunt him, he would not. He would not let it stop him, or influence him into changing his mind about searching out Moriarty. But the one thing he could not do was not allow the horrible noises to scare him. Completely and utterly terrifying him, because out of all the interactions he’d had with John, he knew that the females were nothing like his Merman. 

Thousands of stories are told about Mermaids. Different versions, tales, and iconic imagery colored most of them, embellishment here and condensing there, but they all held similar themes, plots, and sole ideals. One of the most profound messages that all these many stories had in common were that Mermaids were vicious, man eating monsters hiding away in beautiful bodies with bright colored fins. That they lured men out to the edges of the sea with their beautiful figures and luscious voices and then drag them below the surface where they’d have their ways with them. What their ways with them were, exactly, the stories weren’t really sure, but in all the tales told, it was never the victim telling the stories. Sherlock’s conclusion was that they were most likely drowned and then devoured, predators hunting easy prey that came to them in the middle of the ocean. 

A shudder worked its way down his spine as the flesh around it tightened as it did when he encountered something truly barbaric. The tingling moved its way out and around his side to the sluggishly bleeding hole in his side, the skin there spasming slightly before relaxing once more. It was like someone had walked across his grave, as the saying went, and at that moment Sherlock felt that the saying was far more accurate than anything had any right to be. It was the feeling of the supernatural, not easily dismissed by the baser instincts of the body, and it made Sherlock’s skin crawl. 

Truly, the cavern was a horrifying sight. 

Everywhere he looked, there were masses of squirming, wriggling bodies in bright or shining colors, each one’s drenched form catching in the flickering torchlight that came from the walls and overhead. There had to be at least twenty of them crowded into the space about the edges of the water, more so no doubt below the boiling surface just out of sight. Some of them were paying something up high upon the rocks their full attention, among them a rather large purple tailed creature with skin like black sand beaches or obsidian. She was buried arms deep in the open and bound corpse of another great Mermaid lashed upon the rocks above the water, a large white and silver one with a crown of spiked silver, long hair tainted black and green from the deep colored blood that came out of every hole in her body. Loud tearing noises and crunching were wafting from the small area around the body where the large purple Mermaid was presumably eating the now-dead one. Sherlock wondered if that was what had made the horrible dying screeches before being silenced, and upon observing the rest of the surroundings in the cave, he knew it was true. 

Two more bodies of felled Mermaids were floating back up in the water around the great purple one’s tail, still submerged and stirring the blood-filled waters. They were slowly being pulled apart by other Mers just out of sight beneath the waters, and masses of bubbles formed just around them like the one time Sherlock had witnessed sharks eating a bloated whale at sea. Sharks had nothing on these monsters, the thought struck him, because sharks did not induce such horrible killings such as the ones these beasts were performing. On the rocks out of the water were many other Mermaids, small groups of them clumped about one another, in staggering patterns, followed by a few openly snarling upwards. The ones in groups were also devouring something greasy and ink black, but much smaller, roughly the size of babes...

And with shocking, gut-wrenching horror, Sherlock realized that what they were eating was exactly that. Babes, small Merbabes. Tails varying degrees of colors and patterns, small bodies rendered limb from limb as they were consumed. Sherlock leaned to the side of the cave opening and vomited before taking a few heaving breathes, steadying himself against the walls of the cave, and peering back upon the grisly scene before him. He looked pasted the gruesome acts of cannibalism and further into back, towards the ones attempting to drag themselves up the cliff face and failing. Near their great thrashing tails lay a figure, ignored by all of the beasts around it in favor of something else. A very familiar figure...

Moran lay on the ground near the edge of the water, body lying on its front, his face turned towards the opening of the caves where the water came in just below the rock walk-way. Starring right at Sherlock. Blood pooled on the ground around him, numerous wounds opened on his body from the monsters writhing in the water and on the ground around him, clothing torn apart and away. A few bloody chunks had been taken out of his arms and one or too on his legs where his leather boots hadn’t protected his flesh, but they were no longer bleeding with the ferocity of normal open wounds. His eyes too, gave him away, as they gazed sightlessly at the surroundings and straight through Sherlock himself. 

Because Commander Sebastian Moran was dead upon the ground, his arms splayed around him where he’d fallen, his cutlass barely touching his lax fingers near his right side, his other hand slightly curled beneath his chest. He was holding something, but Sherlock could not see what it was from here, and he could not risk getting too close to the water’s edge and drawing their attentions from either Moran’s body or those of the meals they were snacking upon. He doubted he could even get around the few nearest groups of Mermaids closest to him intact and alive, let alone close enough to the man to find out his coveted treasure. 

A shout above the water and into the rocks drew his attention before he could decide his next course of action. 

Moriarty sat perched upon the rocks high above the snarling beasts of the sea, one arm tucked tight against the side of his body, red from blood. His other clutched a gleaming sword, at his waist a loaded pistol. He was shouting and waving his sword at those who got to climbing up the jagged walls towards him, threats and other words falling from cracked lips. He was trapped, Sherlock understood, trapped with his death dangling before his very eyes. Because there was no way that he could even hope to fight off all the beasts below him and make it out alive, and so it was either allow them to kill him painfully, slowly starve to death, or shoot himself with the pistol at his side. His frantic eye darts to Moran’s downed figure only strengthened Sherlock’s conclusion more, and though he wasn’t going to allow that horrible little monster such an easy death, he himself had no idea just how he was going to get close enough to fell him personally. 

Sherlock touched the empty space on his chest and around his neck, thoughts of John, of his missing promise in the forefront of his mind. Death had that effect upon him, it seemed, and as he began to plot within his head, priorities fell into place. His eyes wandered. And then he realized what it was Moran was clutching beneath his body, and why Moriarty kept starring at him like he held everything for his survival. 

A large, decorated conch shell was tucked against his side, half beneath him, the metal ever so often catching the remaining light of the torches embedded into the walls around them. A Clutch. A very large Clutch, gripped tight by a dead man. 

An idea sparked. His breathe caught. A Clutch he would need once more.


	26. Ships With Holes Will Sink

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> You should probably listen to the song “O Death” by Jen Titus while you read this chapter. I’m just saying, the creep factor along with the lyrics and general tone are great for the first part of this chapter. If this story had a trailer, that’s the song that would be playing. Another good song to go with it is “Happiness” by Hurt. Which makes me question if you guys want me to post a Fanmix/Playlist for this story or not? Any takers?

Commandant Moriarty was livid.    
  
No, strike that, he was more than livid.  He was stark raving mad.    
  
Here he was, in the middle of a sacrificial ceremony guaranteed to keep him young and alive forever with a literal army at his every beck and call, and it was all ruined by a bunch of blood thirsty sea bitches!  And considering he couldn’t very well kill any of them, even in defense, he’d been forced to seek high grounds and shelter while allowing Moran to utilize his better features and blood thirsty nature.  So he’d climbed up the side of the out cropping, teeth-riddled beasts chomping at his heels until Seb had dealt them swift punishment for their crimes.    
  
“If any of you disgusting beasts follow me, I will cheerfully have Sebastian here beat you to death with my hat and then turn you into shoes!”  It was a threat he couldn’t keep, but it made him feel better making it.  His magic bargain still held fast to keep him from harming any of them.  “And don’t doubt that I would have him do so!”    
  
Sebastian had just smirked a bit before his mouth set in a determined line and he’d turned back to face the oncoming battle head on.  Typical.  Now he was trapped up high upon the rocky cliff faces, forced to watch as loyal Sebastian tried to fend them off and attempt to carry out his orders as well.  The fair haired Commander fought wildly, bravely even, like a trapped wolf fending for its young, but in the end it wasn’t enough. It would never be enough in regards to the fabled and the supernatural.     
  
After the third significant blow he’d taken by one of the writhing masses in the sea and on the ground, Moriarty could see the recognition dawn upon his face.  He could plainly see the cold, calculating acceptance that Moran showed upon realizing that he wasn’t going to be able to win.  That he was going to die at some point in the near future, and that there was little he could do to stop it.  So Seb had stopped fending them off offensively and retreated to the easier defensive role before he proceeded to make his way away from the edge of the water and Tethys’s bound corpse.  At first Captain Moriarty had been angered by this, thinking the man a deserter, until he saw a shimmering glimpse of metal work as Moran picked up the large Triton’s Conch from their bag of supplies near the opening of the chamber.    
  
Moran was making his way back to Moriarty’s perch slowly with their salvation tucked tightly in under his arm, his other glancing blows off of scaled tales or angry claws, never enough time to actually blow the Conch less he wished for a fatal wound.  And he was doing his very best to move at an agonizingly slow pace back to his Captain, succeeding in the barest inches of movement.  He was almost halfway back to the incline when the blow from one of the largest fighting Mermaids caught him from the side, ripping him open from just beneath his breast bone down into his gut.  The massive silver beast was then wrenched from his person by another of the beasts, the purple one this time, and Moriarty watched with something like fondness and regret as Moran’s eyes widened slightly before rolling up into his head.  Sebastian hit the rocky ground with an exceedingly wet splat and went still.    
  
And though is eyes were facing away from where Moriarty was sitting, the distinct stillness of Moran’s entire body was more than enough of an indicator that there was nothing left of the man.  Nothing left but a meat shell that was currently looking to be a prize for a few of the smaller beasts waiting in the wings for the fighting to cease.  Ones that seemed to be left out from the feasting that the others visible was taking part of. But when he went down, his body had canted inwards to protect the one thing that would be his Captain’s salvation, and if Moriarty could just get passed the hungry devils guarding his sanctuary to get the prize, he would easily be able to get out of this mess.    
  
But that was before the monsters started throwing things up onto the shoreline.    
  
Tiny somethings, tiny somethings that wailed and screamed into the open air.    
  
Moriarty felt -for once in his life- sort of sick.    
  
Because they were eating their young and dead.    
  
Gagging, Moriarty decided it was high time to move upwards again, just in case they decided that they were determined to have him for a meal as well.  It might be easier for them to climb than he once thought, and if they were all in the blood trance that cannibalism surely needed, then he wasn’t about to try it.  But if he shouted obscenities at them the entire way up, well that was his business.    
  
Out the corner of his eye, as he climbed up a few more feet, he saw something.  A very familiar something, standing just at the entrance to the cave chamber.  And not just any something, oh no, a person, standing just out of sight from the gory feast going on below.  Sherlock Holmes, the one and only, was standing just there looking very lost and in pain.  And since Commandant Moriarty had decided to climb up those few extra feet, he had no way to be able to get at him from this distance.    
  
Oh, but there were other ways, other means to get that that infuriatingly persistent man.  Because between him and Sherlock lay at least a dozen or more Mermaids, all eager to feast and render prey limb from limb.  And with every second that passed by them, more and more of them seemed to show from the depths of the deep water crowding and splashing up against the weathered stone that made up the floor.  They showed for the blood, the grisly meat that they were eating, the meat that came from their own, but who were they to turn down the offer of a nice human male?  Especially one so happy to walk directly into their home?  All he’d have to do was alert them to the lithe man’s intrusive presence and then watch the fall out occur.    
  
“Sherlock, how nice of you to join us!  And after making me wait so very long.  I thought you’d never show.”  His shout rang out through the large stone chamber, echoing over the water sharply just as it did the rocks.  “And might I add, what lovely dinner attire.”    
  
Every Mer in the giant alcove froze before turning their heads collectively in his direction, large, inhuman eyes swiveling until they found his thin figure against the background.  They moved as a cohesive mass, and even Moriarty was a bit off-put by the sight.    
  
Sherlock just looked calm and collected, only fidgeting with the handle of his blade for a moment before drawing himself up to his full height.    
  
“Come now, don’t be shy!  I’m sure they won’t bite you too much, Sherly dear!”  The Naval Commandant’s voice crooned sickly sweet taunts, but Sherlock still did no budge.  “Because I’m sure they’re just as surprised to see you here as I am.  How ever did you escape your sinking ship in tact and alive?”    
  
“I didn’t.”  Sherlock took one step, then two, jerkily into the cloying space they all occupied.  His steps were not halting from fear, but from some unseen resistance, though his face remained passive.  “I cam back for you, Jim.  I came back for you.”    
  
Moriarty laughed mockingly down at Sherlock.  He was acting as if he were some sort of ghost or lost soul, when in reality Jim could clearly see the blood from the wound to Sherlock’s side bleeding beneath his shirt and coat, even at this distance.  Ghosts did not bleed.  His rival was clearly alive -though he still wasn’t sure just how he had survived the cannon blasts that destroyed his ship- despite the efforts to look like an ocean-drug corpse.  Sherlock Holmes was human and not a vengeful water spirit.    
  
But the strange thing was, he seemed to be scaring the Mermaids around him as he still slowly made his advance on Moriarty’s perch.  They would watch him carefully until he got too close to them, turning and fleeing hastily as if the Hounds of Hell were at their very tails.  Each one of their faces clouded in terror as they fled to the safety of the water’s hold, and Sherlock never even looked at any of them, his icy gaze held fast on Moriarty himself.  For creatures as inhuman as they were, seeing them run away in such genuine fear of a human-playing-sea-bourn-spirit was very...beautiful.    
  
And with realizing their full beauty, Moriarty also realized just how upset that made him.  
  
“You’ve come for me, have you?  As what?  You are certainly not a revenge-fueled ghost of the water’s claimed. Nor are you dead.”  Jim hissed, carefully taking a few steps down the rocks himself, towards Sherlock without much thought.  “You are nothing but a man, an ideal, and a wounded one at that.  So easily crippled and destroyed.”     
  
“If that is what you believe, then that is what I am.”    
  
“So you do not claim to have kissed Davy Jones then?”  His demented laughter was only followed by his steady climbing back down the rock.  Sherlock thought him a spider with his fluid grace, one to be squashed and then dumped into the sea for some hungry fish to devour.  “Have not met the Man in person, or heard the word of a god?”    
  
“I have claimed nothing, Moriarty.  I am letting you do all the talking, the claiming, the naming.  All the deductions.”  Sherlock stood in the middle of the antechamber a few paces from Moriarty’s rock, with his arms drawn wide.  “Name me and then meet me in battle.”    
  
All the remaining Mers swarmed into the water one after another.    
  
The tension crackled in the air.   
  
Nearby, the Clutches lay unused and un-needed.     
  
“Well, if you are a ghost then, let us see how much you can bleed?”  Moriarty lunged off the rocks, still a few feet from the ground, hitting the stone floor moving rapidly, sword drawn and raised.  His aim was sure to Sherlock’s injured side.  “To the death, Sherlock Holmes.  We meet once more.”    
  
Their swords clashed together.    
  
Each step of their fight resembled a sort of horrible dance, leading up to the ultimate ending where only one challenger would remain standing as the victor.  Sherlock blocked and dodged like a pro, quickly and skillfully evading Moriarty’s more power-laced blows.  But where he was quick on his feet and graceful in his attacks, he was less powered behind the physical aspects of it, and Moriarty was more than making up for his lack of prowess by being bluntly brutal in retaliation.  The shrill clanking of metal on metal soon prevailed in the air, and following in its wake were grunts and groans of the two men taking part in the battle.  It went on like this for quite some time, each man matched evenly with the other, neither gaining ground or losing it to their opponent.  A challenge, truly, to the death, but more-so as the battle drifted onwards.    
  
“You need me to be something, Moriarty!”  Sherlock shouted, nearly doubled in pain, a hand clasped firmly to the once more bleeding wound in his abdomen after a rather fierce blow on his weak side.  “You need me to keep yourself afloat, to keep yourself with purpose!  You’ve felt it, haven’t you?  The boredom slowly seeping in, the sheer agony of being without a challenge, without a rival.  What do you think will happen once you really kill me?”    
  
Moriarty gave only a second’s worth of pause, but it was enough.    
  
Sherlock lunged forwards, hoping to strike Moriarty in the gut at the very most, the upper thigh or leg at the very least, anything in order to deal him damage as he had done to him.  Something that would be enough to cripple him or subdue him for a any amount of time.  Time that Sherlock desperately needed to redouble his efforts and compose himself once more.   He needed it, because as the battle drew on, he was tiring quickly, and the pain shooting from his stab wound was increasing ten-fold.  He wouldn’t be able to keep up the physical exertion for too much longer.  It had to end.  It had too.  This could not go on for much longer, not how it was.  Sherlock wouldn’t be able to stand it.    
  
But Sherlock miss-stepped in his pain and distress, misjudged the distance from him to Moriarty, and in doing do left his belly and side wide open.  So that when Jim dodged the blow and drew away to the side, it left him with a full opening in order to run Sherlock through.  Sherlock would be too slow and too weak to stop it.  This was the end, he had failed.  He had fallen so quickly.    
  
Moriarty’s blade descended and Sherlock closed his eyes in anticipation of his failure.  
  
Though instead of blossoming agony in an already painful side, the sound of splashing water and breaching flesh tore through the air, just as metal did.  Instead of a triumphant shout that the British Naval Captain was sure to give, there was an inhuman screeching cry before the sound of metal, bones, and flesh met.  Sherlock opened his eyes to witness John being impaled upon Moriarty’s sword instead of himself, and everything within him froze over.  John had come from the water, must have pushed his way through the sea and the other fearful bodies beneath it, must have somehow escaped Mycroft and his crew in order to back track and come to Sherlock’s aid.  He had come from the water at the very last moment in order to impale himself upon the blade instead of allowing it to fell the wounded Captain Holmes and carry him to his death.  John had taken their friendship and used it as motivation, as a shield with which to protect and defend.  John had saved his life at the cost of his very own.    
  
And the red binding magic on Moriarty’s pinky flared to life with a passion, the beautiful crimson band elongating and expanding until it was a brand up along his hand, traveling across his wrist and up his arm, towards his neck and torso.  Jim shouted in agony and confusion, clearly bewildered as to why the intent behind the promise was reacting to his stabbing of John in the way it was.  Tethys had rejected John as one of hers, but clearly something in the magic still identified with him as a true Mer, as a denizen of the deep.  It reacted with fiery spite, stripping the man bound in its web of everything he had and laid bare his soul.  Sherlock could only look on just as confused while the red-light, the magic Sherlock guessed, began to rip Moriarty apart.  Whatever John had done, it had saved him from his end.    
  
“No, she denounced you as kin!  She denounced you!”  Jim screeched, dragging his sword around in John’s abdomen in his anger before ripping it from his side in order to grasp his sword hand over his burning chest and the rippling patterns beneath his shirt.  It sent blackish blood in an arc against the rocks and water below, staining the surface with dark.  “You’re not kin!  And you’re not one of her’s!  This won’t work!  There was no intent!”    
  
But the magic was already racing in.    
  
The sound of tearing flesh soon filled the air, along with Moriarty’s pained screams.    
  
John did little more then than collapse backwards to the ground, his upper torso laying mostly on top of his lower half, a once melodious voice pitched low with pain and sorrow.  His visibly damaged side was colored as dark as the ground was now, stained with blood where the sword had opened up a substantial wound from his gills nearly to his navel.  The water sluicing off his body only made the blood run faster, panting and movement resulting from the irritation.  Gaping to the open air and starring Sherlock in the face with biting accusation, here was every bit of his failure printed into John’s flesh with anger and the blade it was carried upon.  John would not last long, not like this, Sherlock realized, and he was beginning to think that they both knew it.  John was going to die, and it was all his fault.    
  
“John, oh no, no.” He flung himself more to John’s side, trying anything, everything to stem the flow of blood.  “No, you can’t leave me. Not now, we’ve come so far.”     
  
Sherlock was not crying, not yet, but he felt like his entire world was being ripped apart from the inside out as he gathered the flailing Merman to him as gently as he was able.  John just cried out but did not resist, trying to help move away from the magic that was ripping their foe to pieces before them.  All the time, Moriarty continued to scream and flail, slamming himself backwards into the rocky outcropping that he’d climbed down to face off with Sherlock, his limbs and head beating against it with every pulsing of magic and cry of pain.  Captain Holmes used his tattered shirt sleeve, arm. and upper torso to try and shield both himself and John from the backlashing of power that suddenly bloomed outwards from its Moriarty center, but even then the scarlet light blinded him for several seconds after the explosion happened.  The rocks and water resounded with the force of the impact, casting sound in all directions.    
  
When all was quiet except the panting of both himself and John, Sherlock slowly relaxed and drew his arm away from both their faces and uncurled himself from about John slowly.  If Moriarty had survived whatever it was that had just happened, he had to be ready, he had to be ready to defend himself and John.  To kill with all swiftness.    
  
But there was little left of the once-famed Commandant.    
  
His remains were simply that of a skeleton dressed in old rags weathered away by exposure and salt, the sword he’d been clutching embedded with the bones into the rocky face behind them.  Forever trapped and immortalized for those foolish enough to venture here to see.  Commandant Moriarty was nothing but remains trapped forever in a rocky prison upon the sea side, a statue, a trophy for the Mers and the magic that beat him.  A warning to all who dared mess with magics they could never hope to control.    
  
The now deceased Commandant didn’t take up his attention for very long, however, when John’s once iron tight grip upon his shirt began to go slack, clawed hands spasming as if in pain and weakness.  Dying, Sherlock’s mind supplied, his body was dying, and he couldn’t do anything to prevent it.  There was too much blood, too much damage to fix or even treat, and nothing he could do would stop what mortal men feared.    
  
So together, he and John cried and clutched at one another until the time came.   
  
Until The End.     
  
With one final sharp inhale, John’s body went still.    
  
And Sherlock wept.    
  
“Do not cry, mortal.  The sea has long been awaiting the return of its lost child.”  A great voice filled the air above Sherlock’s head, breaking the silence with determination tinged with sadness. It could have been hours of minutes for Sherlock, so deep was his grief.  “It has gained back what once was lost.  The ocean though he would never return.”    
  
Sherlock turned around and brandished his own cutlass before himself and John’s body, prepared in his grief to fend off anyone who dared interfere and take John from him.  No one could have him, no one.  Sherlock would not let him.  But the great purple Mermaid before him -the one from earlier, his mind supplied, the one with the dark skin and piercing teal eyes- did not flinch back from his anger or loss, but instead approached further to help him embrace it.  She circled her great arms around him and John before slithering back upright, her torso propped up on her great tail as she surveyed them both with understanding in her own right.    
  
“You must return him to the sea, so that his body may be once more returned to its home.”  She said again, her face passive if a bit pinched, body covered in trace remains of blood.  “He is meant to be here.  His destiny has been met.”    
  
“No, I will not return him to you.  You will devour him.  You will take him from me and mangle his corpse.”  Sherlock said hurriedly, eyes shifting from her to their surroundings, looking for those he knew to be hiding just out of sight.  “I will not allow you to do such a horrible thing John.  Not on my watch.”    
  
“We would never, not for one as brave as him.  His name will become legend.”  She sighed before moving herself so that she was placed just as the edges of the water and of John’s torn tail, her own massive appendage fluttering as she moved.  “Help me return him to the water.  Give me, Sasheena, the new found Matron, the power to help return him to us.  He has been lost for a long while and I would be glad of his company once more.”    
  
“I do not know what you want of me, Sasheena, but you cannot have John.  He is all that is left of me.  You can have anything else you ask.  But do not take him from me.”  Sherlock bit at his lip, tears making their way down his face.  “Take whatever Moriarty has stolen, but leave me him.”    
  
“You would give up the power of Triton’s Conch?  The great Clutch?”  She seemed surprised, but her face was pleasant in its surprise, not startling.  Fangs gleamed for only a moment before she composed herself once more.  “You would give us our freedom from humans?”    
  
“I thought I would have need of it to call you and your people off of me, so that I could avenge the wrongs that man dealt me.  But I was wrong, you fled when I walked among you.”  Sherlock snapped, holding John closer to him still.  “I don’t want it.  Take it and the memories it contains and be free.  We will not trouble you again.”    
  
Sasheena paused for only a moment before she moved down further into the water on an incline that had been sculpted from the rocks, her beautiful hair and tail moving with practiced ease over the jagged rocks.  Once she’d submersed her gills back into the water, she turned to Sherlock questioningly.  She would not ask again, but the care in her features was enough to tell Sherlock all he needed to know.  That she truly wished John’s body to be returned for proper funeral rights as done by the Merfolk.  He could not give brave John that.  He could not follow his wishes when they were as alien to him as Mers were.    
  
“You would take him and properly give him your rights?  You will not eat him?”  He demanded of her, his own glacier eyes meeting the warm teal of hers.  “You must promise to me, swear it, that you will not desecrate his body.”    
  
“My word then, human, that Ladon’s body will go to the sea.”  Her head dipped once in acknowledgement.  “I have no ill will for him or his kind.  It was not me who drove them out, and I do not wish to follow in my Matron’s footsteps or duties.  I only pity.”    
  
“And why should you pity him?”    
  
“For the love he bore for humans.  It is not a frequency my kind encounters, the amount of love and loyalty he had for you.  His mourning cry was enough to have my sadness.  His actions my pity.”  She gently took John’s tail in her hands and began lifting it up off the group, so that Sherlock could pick the rest of him up and join her in the water.  “Come, bear witness to his reward.  It is the least I can do for you.”    
  
Sherlock nodded and gently picked John’s upper torso up fully and held onto him tightly as he moved, shifting so that no part of him drug the ground.  It was painful for him in more than just emotional ways, but he would see the proper thing done.  If for John’s sake.  Always for John’s sake.    
  
With an agonizing pace, he edged towards the water, his trousers at the knees ripping from the jagged points in the floor, but he would not stop.  His careful touch took him all the way into the the water until he was sitting up on his feet and knees in the water next to Sasheena, John’s body submerged between them.  The Mer Matron slowly straightened out John’s tail and fins so that they were floating gently with the bob and weave of each wave, the thin membranes of John’s arms brushing against Sherlock’s hands gently in the water.  Each flick of the Mermaid’s much larger tail send ripples through the water and John, and for the tiniest of moments, Sherlock could pretend that he was only sleeping.    
  
Sherlock did not let go of John when the Mermaid did, but watched the peaceful face of the Merman in the water with him.  He would not be able to relax fully until John’s body was fully taken care of or until it was taken from his hands, which ever came first. He held tight but gently as Sasheena began to chant in some guttural language that was never meant for human mouths above them both, her webbed hands moving over the surface of the water hypnotically.  The water around them began to grow steadily warm, and filled with bubbles the longer she chanted, the salty boil rising up until it completely surrounded John’s body and parts of Sherlock’s own.  It made beautiful rings and patterns in the waters around them, and as the chanting changed pace, it was joined by several mournful cries and melodies from just at the surface of the water where a good chunk of the Mer population had surfaced to pay their respects.  Sherlock could not count how many there were because to do so would mean taking his eyes off John, and he would not have it.  But the melody was kind and gentle, and as it increased in tempo and pitch Sherlock felt his heart sing along side it.  For John.    
  
Before long, the body he held began to dissolve into the bubbles and salt around them, the fins and beautiful tail going first, followed by hands and arms and hair until there was nothing left of John in Sherlock’s arms but the blood still staining his clothing and body.  The water’s temperature began to cool almost as soon as Sasheena stopped her chanting, and the bubbles dispersed along with the other Mers above the water.  There was nothing left of John now except memories and blood.    
  
“I have returned him to the sea, as is our custom.”  She said heavily before she spread her arms along the water between them.  “And I will deal with those that remain in my home.  You and yours are free to leave, but do not return here.  It is not a safe haven for humans.”    
  
Sherlock nodded numbly in agreement, but made no move to get himself up and out of the water he still sat submerged in.  He was adrift, just as John now was.    
  
“People approach.”  Sasheena said before sinking lower into the sea, the distant shouts of men and the clanking of metal working down the corridors leading here.  “Thank you, human, and go before the sun does.  These waters are unforgiving at night.  They will not give you the peace you desire.”  
  
“I doubt anything will.”  Sherlock finally grit out.  “Lost in the sea as I now am.”    
  
Sasheena only stared at him before quickly diving beneath the waters from whence she came, the waves lapping at the shore and Sherlock’s body gently.  A caress maybe, Sherlock thought, from a parting lover or a long lost friend.  It only made Sherlock’s stomach turn as he settled further down into the water upon the ledge, content to stay with John for just a little longer.  The sea was as close as he could get now.  So the sea it would have to be where he returned as well, every bit of himself releasing out into the darkened waters as John had gone only minutes prior.  It felt like a weight were simultaneously pulled from him and placed atop him, the crushing force driving him down into the water further and further until there was hardly anything left.    
  
When Mycroft, Harry, and Lestrade finally found him, Sherlock was hardly there to save.  
  
Just another shell pulled from the Ocean’s floor.   
  



	27. Song Of Victory

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Guys, guys... I’m done. I’ve finished this thing. I’ve finished it and am so proud you all stuck with me through till the end. So thank you, one and all, for all of your support. It means the literal world to me. Give yourself a pat on the back. Go on, do it! 
> 
> Thank you so very much! 
> 
> For those of you interested, I already have a short one-shot sequel type thing all planned out. The working title currently is “Bunches Of Lavender And Kelp” and shouldn’t be more than one or two chapters long, more like an epilogue with a short story thrown in for giggles. I’m not sure when I’ll have it up, but I’ve already started it, so hopefully it won’t take too awfully long. But watch out for it in upcoming weeks! 
> 
> Make sure to join me in the Tumblr tag #Glimpse of Gold for news and updates!

Sherlock didn’t make it out of those caves, not really.    
  
Sure, Mycroft, Harry, Lestrade, and a majority of their combined forces had all eventually found him after a few hours of searching and their own individual assignments.  Moriarty’s men hadn’t taken care of themselves, and before they could secure the perimeter, they had to make sure everyone was secure and really safe.  It had taken longer than they had though, due to the extensive patterns the caves and rocks provided, not to mention all the individual caves and rooms they afforded.  
  
And by the time they’d found him, it had been too late.  Sherlock was still kneeling in the water just at the edge of the incline where he and Sesheena had drug John’s cooling body some time before.  He was still covered in water-thinned blood (his, Moriarty’s, and John’s own ichor fluids), starring off into the dark waters that the incline quickly led into without blinking, without really seeing.  Mycroft had later explained to him -told really- that he had gone into shock due to his numerous wounds, that the blood loss had impacted his health more due to his immersion in the salty waters, but everyone else saw it for what it really was.  Saw it as Sherlock’s soul breaking, shattering, dying.  His body, though hurt and ailing, still able to support him like it always had before.    
  
But it wasn’t.    
  
Sherlock barely spoke after the rescue, which wasn’t all that uncommon for him, yet still strange.  He was usually so passionate about subjects he’d invested himself into, but now when he talked -if he talked at all- it was only a few small words or sounds that didn’t classify as words at all.  He did not look anyone in the eye, did not participate in any conversations, regardless of the topics chosen.  Mrs. Hudson was taking it hard, and had taken to talking to him with despite his oppressive silence while bringing him tea and other tidbits of food.  She would chatter away about all sorts of things, most of which were ship’s gossip or spun tales from her youth, sipping her tea while she watched Sherlock ignore his own.  While he ignored everyone and everything, even Harry, a mentor figure he’d had for quite a few years now, when the elderly man boarded Mycroft’s ship to sit with the wayward younger Captain.    
  
Lestrade had begun to visit him more often as well, despite how hard it was wearing on him.  He kept up in his ship’s duties despite not actually having a ship of their own to run, and would take notes as he always had before reporting everything back to his Captain.  From there he’d move from topic to topic, trying to draw the man out and failing.  When Lestrade would leave, Tiny Tim would sneak up onto the upper decks where Sherlock was most often found and continue to watch over the ailing man in silence.  Tim would perch himself along the side of the chair, hands tucked around Sherlock’s leg or just behind it, and watch the sea while leaning on his Captain, offering whatever support he could.  On the good days, Sherlock would rest his hand atop Tiny Tim’s head, but those days were few and far between.    
  
And despite all of their combined efforts, Sherlock continued to drift further and further away from them, retreating into himself mentally and staying there for longer and longer periods of time.  Mycroft could tell by the way his eyes were -eyes familiar from their childhood- that they were losing him more and more each day.  That soon, not even his body would remain in their tender care.  But he refused to put his last living blood relative, his grieving brother, under guard, despite the risks it invoked.  And yet, Mycroft knew that the day was coming where he would be the only remaining Holmes left.  He knew that despite all the care and effort he might put into his younger brother, that it would not be enough.  Mycroft was resigned to losing the last of his family then, and the pain was clear on his face for all looking at him to see.  It was only a matter of time.    
  
It was why he and Harry had agreed and then offered Lestrade his own ship, his own chance at being a Captain, his own man, with his own crew.  Mycroft had been attempting to provide for Sherlock’s remaining, loyal crew in the only way that he knew how.  But Lestrade had declined the generous offer, and no amount of counciling would get him to budge off his firm decision. The loyalty to his captain was astounding, yes, but painful in the most intimate of ways. Captain Holmes Senior knew Lestrade would be forced to change his mind and see reason when Sherlock finally faded enough to end things.  Like he had said before, it would only be a manner of time. And in the end, Commander Lestrade would become Captain Lestrade, a pirate captain worthy of high esteem and fear in his own right.  
  
Soon, Sherlock was beginning to mend more and more, and within a month of leaving the Mermaid Isles, Sherlock could get out of bed all on his own and move about freely without constant assistance or supervision.  And he did, at all hours of the day and night, to go out and sit above deck and stare out onto the sea.  Often, he was found upon the padded chair his brother had produced for him while he’d first been allowed back out of bed and onto the deck of the ship, the chair having moved to the aft of the great boat so that he could watch their trailing wake.  He remained out of the way, mostly, and out of sight often, hiding from the world in the high backed chair and the comfort of his own mind.  Mycroft was personally convinced that Sherlock spent his time on the beach of his own Mind Palace, reliving happier times with John and his crew before Moriarty had robbed him of them.  If the sick little man hadn’t already been dead, Mycroft would have taken pleasure in killing him again and again, if only for Sherlock’s sake.    
  
A few days after the first month free of Moriarty’s presence, Harry decided that it was time their little battle armada be broken up and returned to whence it came.  He gathered up his men and a few of Sherlock’s loose crew and set off for the horizon, the twin ships disappearing onto the faint line of the sky quickly.  It left Mycroft and Lestrade alone in their efforts of tend to ship and crew, as well as Sherlock, but they both often found time with which to visit him.  Sometimes they were alone in their visits, each one more personal than the last, but sometimes they came together, a tray of tea to split between the three of them.   Their company never seemed to phase him though, and as time passed by, Sherlock even stopped touching the cup before him as a courtesy, his now frail and much-thinned hands shaking whenever they moved further than his lap.    
  
Sherlock was wasting away more so now than ever before.    
  
His once lithe and graceful body was now frail and rapidly thinning, weight he couldn’t afford to lose dropping from him faster and faster the longer time drug on.  Mycroft suspected that if Sherlock were to be stripped of his shirt and coat, that his pale skin would be disjointed and marred by the knobby ends of his bones where they stuck out beneath it.  A walking skeleton beneath a thin layer of skin, barely alive, barely there.  Sherlock hadn’t been eating much anymore, not anymore than absolutely necessary, and it was showing more and more each day.  Mycroft knew that it wouldn’t be long now, and deep down, he felt that it was his fault.  His responsibility slipping through his fingers like so many countless others.      
  
Night fall was always soft this time of year, shimmering into place as the sun slowly sunk behind the line on the far horizon, casting the world in shadows.  The top of Mycroft’s ship was one of the last points that the sun always touched in the evenings, and Sherlock would sit facing the ocean until the very last tendrils of warming light receded from the silky surface of the ocean.  Then he would wait for half an hour to an hour before retreating back down bellow deck to the confines of Mycroft’s cabin, one they shared.  But not tonight.  Tonight it would be different.  Tonight it would be _The Night_.    
  
Sherlock had to wait till the watch change, in order to enact his plan.    
  
Lestrade had gone to bed earlier that evening due to a rather nasty sunburn he’d acquired from falling asleep while sitting with Sherlock and Mycroft in the sun that afternoon.  He’d politely excused himself before limping off to below deck with the rest of the crew, limping slightly the whole way there.  And Mycroft was doing his evening ship rundown with Anthea, meaning he would not be back to quarters until much later due to his habitual perfection.  He usually met Sherlock back in their quarters around a half hour after Sherlock himself returned, which meant that Mycroft would not come looking for him until quite a while after he would be gone.  So when it came time for watch change, Sherlock was ready.    
  
“Goodnight Cap’n Holmes.”  One of Mycroft’s watchmen said pleasantly as he tipped his head at Sherlock before walking around the top deck and then back down the stairs, pausing only to call back over his shoulder once. “Have a pleasant one, Sir.”     
  
It would be at least fifteen minutes until the replacement came on deck, and even longer than that before they came up to check on him.  They drug their feet on the way up the deck stairs to chat and trade gossip, sometimes about him, other times about other members of the crew, before resuming their duties.  Sherlock had been mentally timing them for the past few days now, laying in wait.  Finally, all his careful planning and work was going to come to fruition.    
  
At the sound of feet hitting the stairs traveling downwards, Sherlock stood up.    
  
It was harder now than it had been at the beginning of the week, or even the day before, but his determination was stronger than his body would ever be.  Getting up on the railing of the ship, however, was a challenge in and of itself.  But the struggle was worth and as Sherlock stood on the upper deck’s railing overlooking the back of the ship and the ocean below him, he thought of John.  He thought of all the good times he had with his crew and the loyal Merman, he thought of the adventures they had together, and he thought of his failure when it came to saving John from his monsters.    
  
So he would join John within the ocean in the end.  
  
“In the sea, all that glitters is gold.” He recited calmly into the evening breeze, the stars just beginning to come out and twinkle in the skies above.  “So into the sea I go.  Home, home, blow the man down.”    
  
Sherlock jumped.    
  
His plummet into the sea was met with a few feet of sea warmed water before the cooler depths punched up and laced angry fingers around him, pulling him down into the darkened depths.  He’d purposefully picked right after sundown specifically for the watch change, but also so that there would be no sun above him, no direction to him as he sunk beneath the depths, no way someone would be able to see him as the boat made its way in the opposite direction of his jump.  No one would see him if they were too look over the ship now, but he knew that it wouldn’t happen.  He would be lost to the sea as he had planned to be.  Lost and safe at the bottom of the ocean with John.    
  
Sherlock gasped for breath and a rush of bubbles escaped from his mouth, his breath robbed from him by the salty taste of sea.  Water rushed into his lungs in its place, cold and just as cloying as all his nightmares had ever been.  With the exception of John’s decaying hands being absent, this was just like his reoccurring nightmare.  A slow death beneath the waves just like he deserved.  Sherlock gasped for air once more, taking in another mouthful of water, and pinched his eyes closed as tight as he could.  He didn’t want to stare into the dark during his final moments on the mortal plane.    
  
His brain was screaming at him almost as hard as his lungs were now, demanding an effort to find the surface of the water, to find air that they so desperately needed.  But he knew without fail that he could never reach the surface on his own, because he couldn’t swim at full health, let alone now that he had been wasting away for weeks.  He had made sure that it would end here.  He’d made sure.    
  
The darkness crept in and Sherlock tried to relax.    
  
Weightless in the surf, it wouldn’t be long now, his limbs heavy and numb, his lungs burning but it was as if it were happening far away now.  Down a dark tunnel...or a cave.    
  
Hands, suddenly there were hands around his torso, gripping tightly into his shirt and coat, pulling him up and out of the deep dark, towards what he thought was the surface but he couldn’t be sure.  Soon the hands were firmly around him, and his head was pressed to the collar of his would-be-rescuer, the front of his body to the front of their body, hands wrapped all the way about him and squeezing tight.  He couldn’t feel legs kicking near his, but that hardly meant anything in his oxygen deprived state.  But whoever it was, was saving him...was totally ruining everything.  Sherlock wanted to fight...Sherlock needed to fight.  Was there only the two of them?  Had someone jumped overboard after him without alerting his brother first?  Who in their right mind would be dumb enough to do that?    
  
Together, they broke the surface, and Sherlock sucked in as much air as his lungs could hold while still choking on salty water.  He coughed and choked momentarily before he spit out a majority of the water in his mouth, gagging and vomiting up a bit of the water he’d managed to swallow in his deep sea diving.  Whoever was holding him was most likely regretting it now that they had his puke over their shoulders and most likely down their back and in their hair.  Served them right for saving him, he thought snidely, ruefully, desperately.  He had been so close... So close.    
  
“Sherlock, you great bloody idiot!”  The voice to whoever saved him sounded vaguely familiar, but for the life of him he couldn’t place it.  Strange, Sherlock could always place voices with their faces.  “What the Hell were you thinking, flinging yourself into the ocean like that?  You know you can’t swim.”    
  
Sherlock snorted but didn’t answer.    
  
“You were trying to end it, weren’t you?  Stupid, you’re so stupid sometimes.”  The voice continued on like he could really understand what was going on. Like he cared.  “You couldn’t just go on with life, could you.  Humans, you’re all so silly sometimes.  So carelessly stupid with yourselves.”    
  
Humans?  What did that have to do with...  
  
Wait.  
  
 _Wait._    
  
“John?”  Sherlock croaked out as he whipped himself backwards, his voice hoarse from weeks of disuse and several mouthfuls of salt water.  “John, tell me that is you?”    
  
Had he died then?  Was John sent him to guide him into the beyond, to whatever came next or after what was human life spans?  Because that was the only reason why John should be floating in the waters before him, with him, supporting him from going down once more.  And on top of that, _talking_.  Actually talking.  Everyone knew that John could not speak, not like men could, not in any known human speech.    
  
“Of course it is me, Sherlock.  Who else would save you from drowning yourself?”  John smiled a bit, the careful and timid quirk of his lips that Sherlock was so utterly familiar with that it nearly struck him down.  “Certainly not your brother.  Or any of the rest of your foolish crew.  And don’t think I won’t be having words with them about this.  Careless is what it is.”    
  
“John, am I dead?” Sherlock asked carefully, his eyes seeking John’s own bright blue ones.  The familiar twinkle was causing Sherlock’s heart to seize in his chest.  “Is this the After?”    
  
“What are you talking about, Sherlock?  Of course you’re not dead, I just saved you!”  The Merman frowned before really taking a good look at Sherlock, head cocking to one side as his face softened.  “This is about the fact that I’m here and talking, isn’t it?  Humans cannot do this.  _Cannot Come Back_.  That is why you are so surprised.”    
  
“No, we can’t...”  
  
“You’re wondering how, then?  I know you.  Always curious.”  John smiled again, flipping his tail beneath the surface of the water propelling them back towards the ship moving slowly in the distance.  “But I can’t really explain it.  The languages of humans don’t have the right words.  I don’t know how to explain them in the new language.  Ones that don’t have magic like we do.  Magic of the Sea.”    
  
And suddenly it didn’t matter how he’d done it, just that he’d done it.  John had come back to him, had tracked him down, followed him from the Mermaid Isle.  John had come back.  Sherlock seized forward suddenly, enveloping John in a very tight hug, nearly dunking them both in the process.  But he didn’t care, this was John, his John, and neither of them were dead some how, and they were here... They were here.  Together.  Alive.    
  
And Sherlock had never felt happier.    
  
“Take it easy, Sherlock.  You’re going to hurt yourself before we get back to your boat.”  John started easily moving them back through the water, the movements easy and pain free.  “And unlike me, you are still not well.  You are not whole like you should be.  Sasheena said you would be, but you’re not.  I do not understand.”    
  
“No, John.  No I’m not.”  Sherlock didn’t loosen his grip on John even a fraction, convinced that if he were to let go John would fall into a million pieces in his arms again.  “I didn’t think I ever would be again.  Not without you.”    
  
“Sherlock...”    
  
“Will you teach me to swim, John?”  Sherlock interrupted suddenly, head picked up and starring John in the eyes with feverish intent.  “Will you teach me to keep myself afloat?   I never wish to drown in the ocean by myself again.”    
  
“So you don’t sink like your boat did?”  John grinned, showing off his sharpened teeth after a few moments worth of pause.  “Of course, Sherlock.  I will teach you to swim.”   
  
“Insulting one’s ship is worse than insulting his mother, you know.”  Sherlock said concisely, an attempt at sternness that failed.  His grin matched the one breaking its way across John’s face now.  “Not acceptable from one of my crew.  I’m sorry, but I’ll have to punish you.  An example for the rest of my crew.”    
  
“One of your crew, huh?  I like the sound of that.”   


End file.
